


They Will Rock You

by SneakyHufflepuff



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Minor Jane Foster/Thor, Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyHufflepuff/pseuds/SneakyHufflepuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the be_compromised mini-prompathon. The prompt was a '<b>Knight's Tale AU'.</b></p><p>  Clint Barton wants enough money to retire. Steve Rogers wants to start an orphanage. Having Clint impersonate a knight to enter the tournament circuit seems like a better bet than fighting in the Holy Land for another ten years. And, really, how hard can it be to pretend to be a knight?</p><p>  Lady Natasha Romanoff navigates the social world of the tournament for her own ends. But she has plans that go beyond playing the perfect noblewoman. How will she react when a common upstart threatens those plans?<br/> <br/>With appearances by Sir Fury, Lord and Lady Stark, Jane the Blacksmith, Darcy Lewis, the Princes Odinson, Father Banner and the Winter Knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stuntriderjenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuntriderjenny/gifts).



> Thank you to lar_laughs and shenshen77 for betaing. All mistakes that remain are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> Each chapter will have its own warnings. Everything will be teen or below. The warnings for this chapter are character death and swearing.
> 
> This work is a Knight’s Tale AU, and as such it celebrates cheerful anachronisms and faux-history. So faux that your teeth will be grinding if you care about that sort of thing. Be warned.

_Won't you look down on me, Jesus_  
 _You've got to help me make a stand_  
 _You've just got to see me through another day_  
 _My body's aching and my time is at hand_  
 _And I won't make it any other way_  
\- Fire and Rain, James Taylor

Sir Nicholas Fury, Slayer of Evil and Defender of the Realm, lay collapsed against a squat tree. Steve knelt in front of the wounded knight, squeezing water from a cloth into Fury’s mouth, but it was of no use. He was fading, and fading fast. A spear wound to his side had become infected. There was nothing either of his squires could do. 

“Barton and Rogers. Listen up.” Fury’s voice was gruff and authoritative, even as he approached death. “This land is a shithole, and if you stay here much longer you’ll be the ones at the receiving end of a spear.” He coughed, flecks of blood landing on his armor. 

“Tell me something I don’t already know, sir,” Clint said, hiding his grief at his master’s illness behind snark. Fury wouldn’t want tears. 

“Shut it, Barton. I don’t have much time left.” Fury took a steadying breath, then winced at the pain. “When I came here I had hope of lands and a wife if I served long enough. You two don’t have that. You do have my armor and my horses. Take them, and go on the tourney. Make your money from the noble bastards and get out.” 

Clint shook his head. “Neither of us can joust, milord. We’ll sell the armor and start back to England.” 

“No!” Fury said. “You have time to learn. You just needs to do middling well in the joust, and compete in the archery. You can make enough money to retire. And Steve, you can start an orphanage. Clint.” Here Fury stopped, looking at the weather-beaten man with fondness in his eyes. “You weren’t meant to be a soldier. Don’t waste your life here.” With that, his eyes glazed over and he ceased to breathe. 

Mouth drawn in a grim line, Steve shut Fury’s eyes.

Clint looked at Steve. The shock he felt at Fury’s death was mirrored in the younger man's face. But some part of Clint's brain had already started to plan. Fury had become a knight thanks to his prowess in battle and command of battle tactics, but he wasn’t well liked. There would be no place for his squires except in the regular ranks, under some bully who called himself a knight and acted like a pig.

Clint looked down at his hands, callused from rough work and coated in the grit that made up the landscape, among shrubs and wizened trees. Clint was so tired of never being clean, of always feeling sand or dirt against his skin. "I'll never pass as a knight. Selling the armor is a safe bet."

“Let’s plan for the future, _after_ we bury Fury,” Steve said, tears glittering in his eyes.

“Planning now is how we honor his memory,” Clint pointed out, not unkindly. Sweat trickled down Clint’s back, as if to remind him that he was still alive, even if one of the constants in his life was gone. “The old bastard would want us to have a plan. I say we sell the armor and make for England. There will be work there.”

“No,” Steve said firmly. It had always been his hope to become a knight, any fool could tell. But Steve’s weedy frame and almost constant sickness had made him into little more than a water carrier. Still, there was no man Clint would rather have at his back. “Fury was right. We can make you into a decent jouster. We’ve seen drunk knights do it often enough. It can’t be that hard. And no man alive can match you with the bow.”

“So we just rock up to a tourney, claiming that I’m a knight?” Clint asked in disbelief.

Steve looked at Clint thoughtfully. “We have armor and horses. And so many knights are coming to and from the Holy Land, it would not be odd for a knight from the far away land of-” Steve paused. “Gelderland to try his luck in the tournaments before returning home.” 

“But knights are jerks,” Clint pointed out.

“They don’t have to be,” Steve replied, the tears in his eyes replaced by determination. “They can stand for what’s right.”

Clint bit down a groan. He knew once Steve was set on a course of action, he'd end up following. “I guess we’d better bury Fury then.”

***

 _It's a nice day to start again (come on)_  
 _It's a nice day for a white wedding_  
 _It's a nice day to start again._  
\- White Wedding, Billy Joel

“Remember, Lord Stark prefers his women talkative,” Lord Ivan Romanov told his daughter.

Natasha smiled prettily, her irritation only showing itself with the violence with which she embroidered the shirt in front of her. “I know, father. But do be prepared if he does not ask for my hand. Lord Stark is known to be erratic.” Erratic was the kindest way she could put it. Lord Stark, while wealthy and a noble, had a checkered past with both wine and women.

“He has visited you almost daily for the past month. I am certain he will ask you. My dear, you deserve a suitor with moneybags and noble blood, and they are thin enough on the ground as it is. If Stark asks you for your opinion, you will be positive about your upcoming nuptials.”

Natasha was aware of Pepper’s quiet presence behind her. The older woman had her light red hair pulled back into a no-nonsense bun and she was dressed in a sensible brown dress that did little to hide her beauty, a beauty that Stark had certainly noticed. “Father, I do not believe he is as enamored with me as you think.”

“Stuff and nonsense.” He turned to Pepper, the woman who had been Natasha’s lady’s maid for as long as she could remember. “Pepper, thank you for chaperoning all of these meetings,” Lord Romanov told the quiet woman.

“My pleasure, Lord Romanov,” Pepper said, head bowed, every inch the proper maid.

Natasha smoothed down her red dress. It had been made especially to add red to her wardrobe after Stark had shown his interest in her. Red was, after all, his favorite color, Natasha thought with disdain. She could live a very long time and be very glad never to hear anything more about Stark or his preferences. “Well, father, I must attend to our guest before he perishes from thirst.”

“Good luck, my darling daughter,” Lord Romanov told her, unable to hide his greedy glee at the thought of his daughter marrying Lord Stark. 

Natasha walked to the guest hall of the castle, leaning against the door to listen to Stark’s movements. He seemed to be pacing. She opened the door, and Stark stopped moving abruptly. He hid his nervousness behind an aura of arrogance that he drew around himself like a cloak.

“Milord,” Natasha called, curtseying slightly, as befitted their relative ranks. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Milady.” Tony bowed his head in reply. “I assure you, the pleasure is mine.” As he spoke, his eyes flicked to Pepper, who was a shadow in the doorway. “And milady Potts.”

Pepper regarded him with steely eyes, and managed to look majestic while curtseying deeply. “Milord.”

Natasha sat in the chair next to the fireplace, watching Stark and her maidservant lock eyes. Stark remained standing, whether out of respect for Pepper or because he had forgotten Natasha’s presence entirely, Natasha was unsure.

“Pepper,” Tony began, deciding to abandon propriety. Well, it had been thirty seconds, which Natasha had discovered was a stretch for Lord Stark.

“You’ve already tried to hire me away from Lady Romanov three times, Lord Stark. The answer is still no.”

“You haven’t even heard the question yet,” protested Tony. Pepper crossed her arms and waited. “Virginia,” Tony said, the name like a prayer on his tongue. “Marry me, please?”

Pepper gawped. Natasha covered her mouth with one hand, unable to keep back a smile. 

Pepper closed her eyes, moving her expression into a mask. Natasha could see her running the variables in her head.

“I know I’ve made mistakes in the past, but, you see, it would be a business proposition. You’re the most sensible woman I’ve ever met, and my fief is responsible for most of the armor-” Tony started to babble.

“Tony, stop talking. My answer is yes.” Pepper interrupted, eyes twinkling and joy in every line of her face.

Natasha rose from her chair. “I’ll tell my father the good news.” As she passed Pepper she laid a supportive hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad it’s you and not me,” she whispered.

As Natasha walked away, listening to the joyful couple behind her, she couldn’t help but feel a stab of regret at the upcoming marriage. What were the chances of her finding another maid that would be willing to help her the way Pepper had? She had plans for the upcoming tourney that would be greatly complicated by Pepper’s engagement.


	2. Chapter 2

_'Cause I'm just a girl, little 'ol me_  
 _Don't let me out of your sight_  
 _I'm just a girl, all pretty and petite_  
 _So don't let me have any rights_  
\- No Doubt, I’m Just a Girl

Natasha knew that her father loved her in an abstract way. Ensuring her training in how to be a proper noblewoman was a sign of that love. Never mind that some days the walls of the Romanov castle seemed to crowd in on her. Thankfully, they were going to the tournament circuit soon, now that she still needed to find an eligible noble suitor. Natasha walked to her closet and fingered the tunic and breeches she had hidden in a corner.

“So, what are we packing for?” Darcy, Natasha’s new lady’s maid, seemed to be at least competent. Natasha already had a certain fondness for the girl.

“The tournament circuit. It lasts six months, so pack only the most recent fashion,” Natasha told her maid absently, looking through her dresses.

“Oh, the tournament?” Darcy murmured, stars in her eyes. “Looking for a strapping young knight ready to ride into the sunset with you?” She sighed, holding a hand to her ample chest.

“I’m actually hoping for someone old. That way he will die quickly and I can spend most of my life as a powerful widow.” Natasha said, completely serious. She needed to know if the girl hid steel under her frilly exterior.

Darcy gasped, shocked but not offended. “That’s a terrible thing to say!” she laughed. “You don’t want romance? True love and happily ever after?” she wondered, face alight with an innocence Natasha couldn’t remember ever possessing.

“Love is for children and commonfolk. I am neither.” 

“I can’t imagine not wanting to fall in love. But it’s your life, I guess,” Darcy said with a shrug.

“I’ve been trained from a very young age to be the perfect noblewoman. I took to my training very well. Love is irrelevant.” The social circle of the tournament was far more deadly than any joust, requiring the training that Natasha had received. Natasha was a player in the circle, and she was loathe to play her high card, that of her hand in marriage. But she knew even the Romanov riches wouldn’t stop the whispering if she reached the age of twenty-five unmarried.  

“Let me know if you change your mind. If you want a clandestine meeting somewhere, I’ve totally got your back.”

Natasha turned to Darcy with an almost predatory grin. “As a matter of fact, there is something you can help me with,” she began. Her new maid was as different from Pepper as night from day, but Natasha trusted her instincts. She knew Darcy would aid her in the upcoming tourney. 

***

 _Nobody's gonna slow me down_  
 _Like a wheel_  
 _Gonna spin it_  
 _Nobody's gonna mess me around_  
\- Highway to Hell, AC/DC

Clint rode Dugan, Fury’s dun colored horse, down the path towards the inn. Behind him Steve rode Carter, a dapple grey with a mean streak a mile ride. They made a neat picture, backlit by the dusk light and framed by an idyllic small town.

Traveling as a knight was a completely different experience than traveling as a nobody. Innkeepers still regarded him with suspicion and fear, but it was tempered by greed. There was always a room available, even if they had to remove some poor old merchant from his lodgings. Scenes like that were one of the reasons that they spent more time camping than in inns, but they were road-sore and needed to try out their cover before reaching the circuit, so they were stopping at _La Cruz Encendida_ for the night.

Clint fidgeted with the neck of his tunic. Steve had insisted that Clint wear the best clothing they had, despite the fact it made Clint uncomfortable. Steve had already begun to drill into Clint the many duties of a ‘true’ knight, including dress and manners, in addition to training Clint in the joust. After weeks on the road, what had once seemed like a far-fetched dream now seemed maddeningly real.

They reached the _Cruz_ just as the sun disappeared behind the trees. Clint dismounted, and after only a second’s hesitation, handed the reins to Steve. As Steve led the horses away Carter aimed a half hearted kick at Clint, who dodged out of the way. The ornery beast still thought Fury was coming back, and would let only Steve near her. 

Clint took a moment to enjoy the feel of solid earth under his feet. The forest around him was lush and startlingly beautiful after the scrub of Jerusalem. The people around him seemed plump and well-fed compared to the hollow-eyed waifs who lurked closer to the war. Even the animals were more relaxed, more alive. He could get used to this.

“Sir, a hot bath is waiting for you in your room,” Steve called, voice free from any mockery.

Clint raised an eyebrow. Steve wouldn’t have wanted to waste their coin on such a luxury, which meant the innkeeper had provided it free for his noble guest. Probably in the hopes he wouldn’t burn down the bar. Whatever the innkeeper’s reasoning, he could _definitely_ get used to this. Although he knew Steve would make Clint do twice the grunt work on the road, just to make sure he wasn’t getting too cocky. 

\---

Clint and Steve occupied the ground floor of the tavern, enjoying the questionable stew. Clint had spent the day haggling with a blacksmith to repair Fury’s armor with little success, while Steve had focused on forging letters of nobility. Clint took a gulp of ale from his mug and examined the letters of nobility. He noted with amusement that his coat of arms was a black hawk on a maroon background. His nickname among the ranks had been Hawkeye, both for his sharp eyes and ability to hunt down his chosen prey. Clint took another gulp of ale. He didn’t want to remember the man he had been. 

“Nice work,” Clint told Steve. “But isn’t it a little more simple than most?”

“That’s the point. You’re supposed to be a backwards noble,” Steve told Clint, before abruptly cutting off their conversation as he noticed a small woman stride over to their table, head held high. 

Clint could see from her heavy smock, half black with hard use, and the small scars on her hands that the woman was used to working a forge. A female blacksmith. He was impressed.

“Good day, sirs. I hear you’re headed to England.” The woman stumbled over the words, as if it had been many years since she’d spoken English. Small and covered with dirt, the blacksmith was still a striking figure, her strong character turning pretty into beautiful.

“To the tourney for a year first, then I go to England with some of our winnings, while Sir Clinton goes home to Gelderland,” Steve said to the blacksmith. Clint elbowed him in the side. There was no use in telling everyone their plans.

“I’m Jane, the best blacksmith around these parts. I’m looking to go to England myself, and I could use traveling companions.” She attempted a no-nonsense tone, but there was an underlying wheedling that Clint recognized as a mixture of hope and desperation.

“Why to England?” Clint asked, drawn into the conversation despite himself. 

“My husband, Donald, set up shop here and died before we could make money off the forge. I barely get enough work as it is, with so few willing to trust a woman to do a man’s work. A foreign woman at that,” she said, obviously bitter. “I’m a farrier, a good one. And I can make you better armor than what you've been showing around. The suit you’re using is outdated, and not made for you.” She scanned Clint critically. “Your father’s?”

“Yes,” Clint answered, sadness creasing his face.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jane said solemnly.

“We could use a farrier and an armorer, but I warn you, my best event is the bow. You’ll get room and board for your service, and little else.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “As it happens, I’ve been experimenting with designs for a metal bow.”

Clint snorted. “A metal bow?”

“Twice as powerful as the best wooden ones, and just as reliable. I swear.” Jane had a glint in her eye that Clint recognized from the priests who had studied in the Holy Land as if dusty manuscripts were more important than the war going on under their noses.

“We should at least give her a chance,” Steve told Clint.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Jane said, sensing an opportunity. “If my bow is as good as I say it is, you have to take me with you. If not, I’ll stop bothering you.”

Clint looked at the bright-eyed woman in front of him, from her sensible boots to her fly-away hair. There was an inner strength there that could be useful in the future, especially if she could deliver what she claimed. “Deal.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another thank you to lar_laughs and shenshen77, for being awesome betas.

_I've been taking care of business (it's all mine)_  
 _Taking care of business and working overtime_  
\- Taking Care of Business, B.T.O.

To Clint’s surprise, all he had to do was ride in on a horse and the tournament organizers had accepted him with open arms. Steve’s forged documents were barely even glanced over. They had set up camp in the fields, before rushing over to the archery contest. Archery wasn’t taken seriously by most knights, viewed as a warm-up act for the real sport, jousting. There wasn’t even time allocated for heralds. But there was a cash prize. 

Only eight men had entered the archery event. All looked to have a favoured weapon other than the bow. A plump youth with dark hair loitered with the men and, from the state of his frayed tunic and leggings, Clint guessed he was here for the same reason Clint was: gold.

Clint had left the metal bow in his tent. He didn’t need it for a competition, but it would come in handy if he ever needed to draw an arrow in the heat of battle ever again. Instead, he had brought his trusty elm bow, worn with hard use and as familiar to him as the night sky above the Holy Land.

A man with an unfortunate nose that made it look like he was related to a pig, but who no doubt boasted many generations of noble heritage, moved between the competitors and the targets. The sparse crowd began murmuring in anticipation.

“Sirs, the rules are simple. You will step forward in turn and loose three arrows. Two men will be eliminated each round until one is the victor.” He increased the volume of his voice until his words rolled over the crowd. “Lords, ladies.” He bowed. “for your viewing pleasure, let the archery commence!”

The first round was easy. Clint sunk an arrow in the second ring around the bulls-eye and two in the inner ring. He had no wish to become well known for his true prowess. One of the archers clean missed the target, sending the crowd scattering. One hit outside of the rings. The black-haired youth he noticed from earlier and a taller red haired man were the only two to hit the bulls-eye, and only twice each. Clint was almost disappointed by the level of competition.

In the second round Clint sunk his arrows in and around the bulls-eye, along with the two other competent competitors. The woosh of the arrows was comforting to him, along with the thwacks of the arrows’ impact. He breathed in, appreciating the smell of grass and hints of roasted meat coming from the food tents, so at odds from the stench of the battlefield. 

In the third round the other three competitors spent what seemed like an age sighting their target, so Clint did the same, releasing each arrow after twenty seconds of thought. Only he and the black-haired youth hit the bulls-eye each time. Despite himself, Clint felt a rush of adrenaline in his gut. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed this, forgotten how much he enjoyed proving that he was the best.

The announcer stepped forward. “Lords and ladies, we have our final two competitors, Samuel of Tarsk and Clinton von Lichtenstein. Which marksman shall go away with the prize?”

The black-haired youth looked Clint up and down. He stared back, unimpressed by his competitor’s short stature and flabby torso. The youth turned towards his target, stepped forward and released his bow-string. The arrow flew through the air to hit a hairs-breadth into the bulls-eye. The youth stepped back with a sigh of relief. Clint could see that his opponent had never shot a bow in anger. He was technically proficient but his draw weight was low and Clint would bet good money that he would have difficulty hitting a moving target.

Clint stepped forward and drew back, holding the pose to the admiring gasps of the crowd. He smirked, but before he could release, light from the edge of the crowd flashed into his eyes. He made the shot blind. It hit the exact center of the target, inside of where his competitor’s arrow had hit. Clint turned to the youth, whose mouth was hanging open in shock. From the corner of his eye he could see a maiden slipping a mirror back into her pocket. No doubt the youth’s lover. It was a cheap trick, and useless against a man who had fought in the hot desert sun surrounded by men in armor wielding reflective weapons. They shot twice more. The outcome was the same. The youth was good, Clint was better.

The youth saluted Clint with his bow then walked away, face placid but anger in the tense line of his shoulders.

“And the victor is Clinton von Lichtenstein.” The porcine man handed Clint a purse bulging with coin.

Clint took the purse with a nod of his head, and then made to leave the arena. The porcine man grabbed him, holding him in place. Clint opened his mouth to protest, then he understood. He waved to the crowd and smiled uncomfortably as the sound of applause rolled over him. Some part of him wished he could show the spectators what he could really do. But Steve had advised him away from splitting an arrow, and over the years he had learned that listening to Steve was good for his health, if nothing else.

Finally the applause died down. He left the arena, drained more from the performance than the relatively easy task of the archery.

Steve clapped him on the back. “Good work, Clint!”

Clint handed him the purse. They’d divide it three ways, as planned. Jane had been invited into the deception within three days on the road. 

“I can’t wait to sleep. I felt like a performing monkey out there,” Clint told Steve.

“You must go to the joust, milord,” Steve said, the milord added for the benefit of any passerby listening in on their conversation.

Clint frowned. “The scheduling is a mess. Can’t we just say I got lost on the way to the joust?”

Steve moved closer to speak quietly in Clint’s ear. “You have to compete, even if you lose. It makes you look like more of a knight.”

“I’d look like more of a knight if I got drunk at the local tavern to celebrate my victory,” Clint hissed back, but did as he was told.

***

 _You can't always get what you want_  
 _But if you try sometimes well you might find_  
 _You get what you need_  
\- You Can’t Always Get What You Want, The Rolling Stones

Natasha took her hair out from under the black wig she wore to hide her distinctive red locks. Shucking off her tunic and leggings, she nodded towards Darcy, who began unlacing her underbodice. It held in the stuffing that made her look like a chunky lad. She had discovered early that binding her breasts tight enough to hide them made it impossible to breathe, so she bound them loosely and added padding to create a belly that concealed her figure. 

“Milady Romanoff?” Darcy asked, sensing Natasha’s irritation.

“Yes, Darcy?” Natasha responded, wiping herself free of sweat with a damp cloth as Darcy undid the last of her bindings.

“You were amazing out there.” Darcy’s eyes shone. “Can you teach me to shoot like that?”

“Maybe you should ask Sir von Lichtenstein. I came second. There is no prize for second place.” Natasha slipped her gown over her head and her hands through the ridiculous sleeves that almost touched the ground as she walked.

“You’ll get him next time,” Darcy assured her cheerfully.

“Thank you, Darcy. And excellent work with the mirror.” Despite her words, Natasha knew that she had no hope of beating von Lichtenstein. The man, fresh from the Crusades and little more than a peasant by the looks of him, had a preternatural gift with the bow. There was no way she could beat him in a fair contest. No, her best bet was to make sure he was unable to compete in the next tournament.

She walked to the stands, Darcy behind her. Lord Romanov was busy running his estate by mail and scouting out potential suitors. While some fathers viewed the joust as a good indicator of a man’s potential, Lord Romanov was more interested in the man’s moneybags. Natasha quite agreed with that approach, but as a maiden and a representative of the Romanoff family she had a role to play in watching the jousts with every indication that she was interested. 

While Natasha’s face was calm, she was still fuming internally from her loss in the archery. She had her winnings from two previous entries in archery tournaments, but with a competitor this good, she’d never win again. Despite making economies with her allowance and enhancing her savings through shrewd betting, her goal of financial independence was melting away from under her eyes. She would not be able to live the life she wanted on the money she had made so far.

Natasha was shaken from her musing when a herald walked out onto the field. He was a weedy blond that looked more like a boy than a man. “Lords, Ladies.” He bowed to the stands. “I present to you a man who fought in the Holy Land since boyhood, a man whose noble blood has been split in defense of Jerusalem and a man who believes in chivalry,” Natasha rolled her eyes. Chivalry was pretty enough for heralds to yatter about, but it was a myth as insubstantial as the Lord they all prayed to. “I present to you, Clinton von Lichtenstein.” Natasha’s mouth dropped open. So he had won the archery and was trying his hand at the joust? Insufferable man. The crowd gave him a polite round of applause, and Natasha joined in, smiling sweetly. At least she would get the chance to examine her enemy and find the best way to defeat him.

Another herald, this one polished and twice the size of von Lichtenstein’s, entered the field. “Lords, Ladies. I present to you to, the man who needs no introduction.” He smirked at the other herald, whose cheeks’ colored. “The Winter Knight.” The applause from the crowd became an overwhelming wave of noise. The Winter Knight, a nobleman in disguise, whose identity had been a cause of speculation for the past three years. His armor and horses spoke of great wealth, yet no one knew who he was. The tournament organizers allowed it as it made the circuit very popular with the common folk, who, after all, were the ones supplying the food and bulk of the housing.

The two knights saluted. Clinton shifted awkwardly in his saddle. His seat was good, and his armor well-made, but the contrast between him and the Winter Knight was all too clear. Von Lichtenstein's horse was past his prime, his armor battered in contrast to the matte black perfection of the Winter Knight’s horse and armor. The first run ended in a crash of broken lances. Von Lichtenstein held his seat, awkwardly. The Winter Knight scored two points for hitting Clinton solidly in the chest, Clinton scored one point for glancing his lance off his shoulder. The crowd cheered, and the horses wheeled around for another round.

Again, the two horses thundered down the alley. Again, the crash of lances on armor. This time von Lichtenstein flew through the air, hitting the ground and rolling with the impact. His herald rushed over to pull him to his feet. He nodded good naturedly to the Winter Knight, exchanged a few joking words with his herald and left the arena to the same polite applause he had entered it. 

Natasha watched him carefully. Some sense at the back of her mind tingled. He hadn’t looked disappointed, indeed, she almost suspected him of losing intentionally. But why enter the joust if not to win? And he hadn’t even looked at the women in the stands, as if they were irrelevant to him. An unmarried knight back from the Crusades would usually be using his service to find a wealthy wife, or at least a patron, but she hadn’t heard of von Lichtenstein until this day. Was it possible? Was he another imposter? But surely one of a different sort. He had the weathered skin and defeated bearing of a commoner. Most would not think of it, but it was laughably easy to enter the tournaments with fake credentials, as she knew well. And nobles bled red, the same as commonfolk. She played back the days events in her mind. How would someone become so proficient in a bow if he didn’t use it as his primary weapon? Add in his comical awkwardness in front of the crowd. Natasha would bet a significant portion of her hoarded money that he was a commoner. She felt like clapping her hands in delight. She had her leverage.


	4. Chapter 4

_Like something that seeks its level_  
 _I wanna go to the devil_  
 _I wanna be evil, I wanna spit tacks_  
 _I wanna be evil, and cheat at jacks_  
 _I wanna be wicked, I wanna tell lies_  
 _I wanna be mean, and throw mud pies_  
\- I Want to be Evil, Eartha Kitt

Natasha, disguised as Samuel of Tarsk, walked towards the barn where Clinton von Lichtenstein and his herald were lounging. They were joined by a slight dark-haired woman, who Natasha guessed was a blacksmith from her garb. All were smiling, their cheer an almost physical presence. It made the loss in the archery all the more bitter for Natasha.

“Sir von Lichtenstein,” Natasha called, her voice dropping into a deeper register than the voice she used as Lady Natasha.

Clinton bowed. “Can I help you, Sir Tarsk?”

“If I may have a word in private? I wish to congratulate you on your victory in the archery.”

Clinton looked at her searchingly, and for a moment she feared he had pierced her disguise, but instead he shrugged and rose to his feet. “Of course, milord.”

They began to walk towards the stables. “You deliberately lost in the joust,” Natasha said bluntly, wanting to put the archer off balance. 

“Yes, facing the Winter Knight when there was no need for it didn’t seem too smart of an idea.” Her tactic failed. He seemed utterly comfortable in his skin, a different person from the man uneasy in front of the cheering crowd. 

Natasha stopped in her tracks and frowned, as if her chivalrous ideals were offended. “Why, Sir von Lichtenstein, that is an ignoble sentiment.” She had already noted how at ease he was with his common retinue, and the roughness of his speech. The evidence mounted against him. She was more than ready to make her gamble.

Clinton turned towards her with a wolfish grin. “Why don’t we cut to the chase, Lady Romanoff?”

Natasha felt her heart stop. “Excuse me?”

“You play a man well. You have everything right, the gait, the hair, the voice. But you can’t hide your eyes. Or your lips.” His gaze dropped briefly to her lips as he spoke. 

Natasha closed her eyes in thought. This called for a change in strategy. “You’re more observant than I gave you credit for,” she allowed, her voice neutral.

“Thank you, I think. My question still stands. Can I help you, Lady?”

“You can drop out of the archery competition next tournament,” Natasha stated, dropping her arms to her side and tilting her head to look as nonthreatening as possible.

Clinton laughed outright. “Why would I do that? You’re the only competition, and if you excuse me for saying so, you’re going to be pretty easy to beat.”

Rage bloomed in Natasha’s mind. How dare he? But she kept her voice and expression pleasant. “You’d find it hard to compete if you were in jail for impersonating a noble. Thrown into the same cell as your comrades for aiding you,” she threatened with a sweet smile.

All good cheer disappeared from Clinton’s face. “Threaten my friends again, milady, and you’ll see how ignoble I can be. I don’t think you’d find a husband easily if it was revealed you were competing in the tournament.”

It was Natasha’s turn to laugh. She had been right, he was an imposter. “Who would believe you? Your word over mine? Sir Samuel of Tarsk could suddenly get a letter from home, I’d deny the claim and all you would be doing is drawing attention to your own _origins_.”

“Well, it seems we’re at an impasse.” Clinton crossed his arms, well-defined from years spent drawing a bow.

Natasha thought quickly. “I have a proposal.”

“Talk fast, milady,” Clinton said flatly.

Natasha knew she had seriously miscalculated, threatening his friends. She had thought she was dealing with a mongrel, only to be confronted by a different beast entirely. “Call me Natasha,” she said, in an effort to provoke empathy. “We both want one thing from these tournaments. Money, yes?”

Clint nodded in agreement, blue-green eyes intent on hers.

“And you definitely need help passing as a noble,” Natasha continued with a smile that felt like a mask stretched over her face.

Clint looked down. “I hadn’t thought it was that obvious.”

Natasha felt a flush of victory, but was careful not to let it show. So she had found a weakness, Clinton’s insecurity. “It won’t be, if I teach you. The right dances, the right gestures. It takes practice, but it can be taught, even to grown men.”

“In return for me dropping out of the archery? There’s no point in me being here if I’m not making any money,” Clinton pointed out.

“You can make three times as much in the joust,” Natasha replied.

Clinton scoffed. “I can’t win the joust any more than I can win the sword. I only entered ‘cause it made me look like more of a noble.”

“You have a good seat and solid technique. You can win.” Natasha said confidently, stepping closer to him. 

“And I suppose you can teach me how to do that as well?” Clint asked.

“Yes. Like most things, it’s a matter of leverage.” Clint looked unconvinced. “If I can’t, I’ll give over my archery winnings.”

“No offense, ‘Tasha. But how can I trust you?” 

“I give you my word,” Natasha said, eyes wide and innocent, ignoring the shortening of her name. 

“I have a better idea. If I win the joust, I’ll give you the archery winnings. I’m not dropping out of either competition. I shouldn’t need to, not if it’s just about the money. Unless there is something else in it for you?” 

Natasha didn’t want to think about his question and its implications, so instead she asked one of her own. “And how do I know I can trust you?” she demanded.

“You can’t. But I’ll give you _my_ word.” Clint smirked at her.

“Deal,” Natasha said. “If you help me with my archery.” Her old instructor had died before she had finished her training, and she had been unable to find a new one who would be discreet enough for her purposes.

“Deal, ‘Tasha. Call me Clint.”

“When do you want to start training, _Clint_?”

“Well, we’ve got three days of the tournament to spend. Let me tell the others, and we can start now,” Clint offered.

“Tell the others?” Natasha asked, surprised. “No. They can’t know.” 

“We’re in it as equal partners. They have to agree,” Clint said, as if it were obvious.

“We tell them that I noticed your common roots, and we agreed to teach each other. Nothing more.” Natasha’s double-life was known only to Pepper, Darcy and this man, already too wide a circle for her taste.

“I’m not lying to my friends,” Clint said stubbornly. 

“You’re not lying. You’re omitting the whole truth. Please,” Natasha begged. “I can’t have everyone knowing.”

Clint’s eyes softened. “Okay, I’ll stay quiet about it, but if you try any of that blackmail manipulation nonsense...”

“Archery lessons for jousting and nobility lessons. It’s not like we’re negotiating a peace treaty between the Pope and the Caliph,” Natasha said impatiently.

Clint threw up his hands. “We’ll get started then. Let’s go introduce Sir Samuel of Tarsk to the gang.” He walked past Natasha without pause, expecting her to follow. She did, grinding her teeth at his impertinence. It would be better if she had tipped off a tournament organizer and stayed out of this affair entirely. Still, she could reserve that as an option.

***

 _The girl was persuasive_  
 _The girl I could not trust_  
 _The girl was bad_  
 _The girl was dangerous_  
\- Dangerous, Michael Jackson

By the time Clint and Natasha reached the barn, Steve and Jane were engaged in a friendly dice game. Jane’s eyes darted from die to die as she appeared to calculate odds. Steve's quick hands and clever eyes made the two an even match.

“Everyone, this is Sir Samuel of Tarsk. Sir Samuel, this is Steve Rogers, our herald.” Natasha nodded to the man as a knight would nod to any commoner, hidden again in her persona as Samuel. Steve waved, his open smile and diminutive frame making most dismiss him as a threat. Not Natasha, Clint suspected.  “And Jane Foster, our blacksmith.” Clint turned to Natasha. “And I’m Clint Barton, imposter.”

Steve’s body stiffened in alarm. Jane let out a cry of dismay. 

Clint gave his friends an apologetic smile. “Apparently I’m as good at playing noble as we thought. Sir Samuel has offered to teach me etiquette and jousting in return for archery lessons.” He could see Steve and Jane relax.

“Welcome!” Jane said. “We’re about finished this round, but you can join us for the next.” 

“What are the stakes?” asked Natasha.

He still couldn’t get a read on her, which was unusual. Most people fit into molds, but Natasha defied summary or explanation. His reason told him to run away from her and her schemes as fast as he could, but his gut told him to stick around.

“A copper bit a round,” Jane said, almost apologetically, ignorant to Clint’s thoughts. 

Natasha grinned. “Works for me. I’ve sent most of my money to my mother, so I don’t have as much to spend on frivolities as my fellow knights.” 

And just like that, Jane was wrapped around Natasha’s finger, with Steve looking decidedly sympathetic. Natasha sat down next to them. 

“Joining us, Clint?” Steve asked.

“Sure.” Clint sat between Jane and Steve, opposite Natasha. “But one round only. Sir Samuel and I have a lot of work to do.” He thought about Natasha’s shooting with a shudder.

“I’ll say,” agreed Natasha with a smile, eyes flicking over Clint’s unkempt form. He could almost see her retreating back into character as Samuel after she let that barb slip. 

“Maybe I could make you a bow. You’re not that large, and it could come in handy,” Jane chirped, eyes already measuring Natasha’s arms and torso. “I want to test a few new ideas. If you’d like?” she asked Natasha.

Natasha looked at Jane in confusion. “I thought you were a blacksmith.”

“I am, but I’ve figured out a way to make metal bows, twice as powerful as wooden ones. The alloy I use is light, so it’s worth lugging around.”

“Jane is being humble. Her bow is amazing,” Steve said proudly. 

Clint cut off Steve’s enthusiasm. “I’m sure Sir Samuel is quite proud of the bow he already has.” It was what any hunter worth his salt had. Clint had always been a fan of hard work over fancy technology, and a metal bow wouldn’t do Natasha any favors until she had truly mastered the wooden one. 

“Actually, Clint.” Natasha said. “I’ve been looking to get a new one, but I haven’t had the... ability.” Natasha stopped, head low, as if she were an impoverished noble. “How much would it cost?”

Jane waved her hands. “Just the material cost. It’d be a prototype, so I couldn’t very well charge.”

Natasha’s eyes widened in shock, and for the first time since Clint had known her, something seemed to have gotten through her emotional armor. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to revolutionize technology just for an archery competition,” Clint interjected. If Natasha stuck around much longer she’d have the shirt off all their backs. “Steve’s right. It’s a damn good bow, Jane. But do we want everyone to have one by the end of the year?”

“But just think of the breakthroughs I could make!” exclaimed Jane.

“Let’s make them once we’re all comfortably wealthy and off the circuit,” said Clint.

“Okay.” Jane scowled. Clint hated to get in between her and her dreams, if only because she was more persistent than the average bulldog, but the world didn’t need more new weapons. 

Natasha glared at Clint, then smiled at Jane. “Thank you for your offer. It was very generous.”

“Welcome to the team! It’s not every noble who would make a deal with a commoner. Someone else might have turned us in.” Jane smiled at Natasha in return, the blacksmith’s mind already turning back to the forge and how to perfect her craft. She seemed to live half her life in that state, only coming back to reality to eat and for strictly limited social interaction.

“Well, Sir Samuel isn’t just any noble,” Clint said, only Natasha catching the double meaning of his words. “Now let’s play.”

As the dice game moved from round to round Clint spent more time looking at Natasha than he did at the dice. She had melted into her surroundings within moments, mastering a game she hadn’t known how to play and fitting into their group with ease. Clint wondered how she did it, flowing from one personality to the other. It was breathtaking.


	5. Chapter 5

_And if you said this life ain't good enough_  
 _I would give my world to lift you up_  
 _I could change my life to better suit your mood_  
 _'Cause you're so smooth_  
Smooth, Santana

“No,” Natasha said crossly, moving Clint’s hands to a slightly different placement in the air. “Like this.” She stepped back to demonstrate an undulation of the arms and twist of the torso, liquid in human form. How anyone mistook her for a man was beyond Clint.

Clint belatedly tried to imitate her movements, feeling awkward and uneasy as he did so.

“You dance like a drunken sailor,” Natasha informed him, her eyes probing his form for weaknesses. The barn hid their movements from prying eyes, but Clint couldn’t help but wish that Steve and Jane were there to offer support, or at least a distraction for his demanding task mistress.

“Have you seen a drunken sailor dance? Some of them are quite good,” Clint retorted. Natasha had been teaching him table-manners, etiquette and dancing for three hours straight. “Look, let’s take a break. I’ll buy you lunch.”

Natasha shook her head. “I have to go in an hour, and you need to be able to pass as a knight by the end of the tournament. You’ll be expected to attend the banquet.”

Clint slumped to the ground. “If I learn any more dance steps they’ll be so muddled in my head that I won’t be able to do them at all.”

“Fine.” Natasha gracefully folded into a cross-legged position on the ground, her posture perfect.

She had relaxed her pretense as a man around Clint, much to his dismay. He had spent half the lesson trying not to look too much at her legs, then not at her lips, or her eyes. It really wasn’t fair, he reflected, that someone so arrogant was so beautiful. And graceful. It made focusing on the right way to hold a fork difficult. She cocked an eyebrow at him, as if he were a curious specimen to study and he realized he had been staring at her for too long.

“Are you always work and no play?” Clint blurted out, and tried for a charming grin.

“Around your sort? Yes,” Natasha answered, looking down her nose at Clint.

“My sort? What’s that supposed to mean?” Clint relaxed, the more stuck-up she was, the less attractive he found her.

“You know what I mean,” Natasha told him bluntly. He did. Which didn’t mean he couldn’t poke fun at her.

“Oh? People who pretend to be something they’re not to compete in a tournament? Yeah, I hear we’re terrible,” Clint said sarcastically.

Natasha laughed, her expression unguarded for half a moment. “Touché.”

Clint felt his heart lurch as her face lit up for a brief moment. He couldn’t fall for this woman, he couldn’t. Whenever he fell for someone, bad things happened.

“Tell me about my competition in the joust,” Clint suggested, lying back against the straw strewn on the barn floor and closing his eyes. Maybe if he couldn’t see her, he would be immune to her beguiling effect.

“At the moment the Winter Knight and Count Skurge are your two major competitors.” Natasha’s husky voice turned the business-like assessment into a verbal caress.

“The Winter Knight will win, game over,” Clint pointed out, still not convinced that he should seriously compete in the joust.

“Not necessarily. The Winter Knight prizes his identity over any individual competition. If you threaten his identity, he’ll withdraw.”

“That’s your plan?” Clint exclaimed. “Blackmail the _Winter Knight_?” He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows to look at Natasha, who looked completely unperturbed at the thought.

“Simply observe the Winter Knight’s herald and follow him back to his master. It would be too easy. And blackmail? All you would have to do is lock eyes with the man.”

“Bad plan. Also, morally dubious.”

Natasha sighed in exasperation. “We’ll come back to that. Skurge is even easier to deal with. He has a weakness for women, and all we need to do is hire someone to distract him...”

“No,” Clint said. “I want to win this thing fair and square. If I start using tactics like that, everyone will hate me and I’ll take the hard hits early on.” Clint winced at the thought of heavily armored knights thundering towards him without his bow to protect him.

“I see your point,” Natasha said thoughtfully. “We’ll save that for the London tournament. It has the biggest prize.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Clint protested. “Look, if winning the joust is so easy, why don’t you do it?” He settled back down into the straw, closing his eyes and wishing for a brief nap.

“I thought about that.” Clint heard Natasha’s voice getting closer. He tensed. “But then how would I explain my injuries?” she asked rhetorically. He felt a jab in his side from a booted foot. “Same time tomorrow,” Natasha stated.

Clint opened his eyes. Natasha was standing over him, her face framed by her wig of black hair and her mouth drawn into a half smile as he waited for her to respond. His stomach dropped as he realized he would go through several hours of etiquette training just to be near this woman. “Tomorrow. Same time, same place,” he managed to croak out. God, he just wanted to see her laugh again, to pull her down on the straw next to him. But she looked at him like he was dirt under her feet, and given all the terrible acts he’d committed in dusty streets and blood-drenched fields, she wasn’t all wrong.

Natasha nodded a goodbye and left the barn without looking back. No doubt to do noble things with her noble friends that Clint could never compete with. Goddamnit it all to hell. His heart had the worst taste in women.

***

 _It's a beautiful day_  
 _Sky falls, you feel like_  
 _It's a beautiful day_  
 _Don't let it get away_  
\- Beautiful Day, U2

“What are you doing?” Clint asked Natasha as she set down her bow.

Natasha rolled back her shoulders, enjoying the stretch. “My arms are sore.”

“Good.” Barton picked up her bow and handed it back to her. “That’s when you can improve your technique the most. How you shoot in practice is how you shoot when you need to.”

Natasha grabbed the bow back from him. She was in her garb as Samuel, and the heat from the padding and her exertion was making her feel faint, but she’d be damned if she’d let some peasant outlast her. “Fine.”

Natasha fished an arrow from her quiver, set it to her bow string and drew it back for what felt like the thousandth time.

“No. Bring your elbow in.” Clint sighed in frustration, moving towards her to adjust her stance. From the way his eyes had lingered on her form, she expected his hands to do the same. Instead he was brusque and professional, pulling her body into a shape designed to make the release as natural and painless as possible. “Now try.”

She pulled her string back, and released. The arrow sprouted from the fencepost they had been using as a target. She kept her face devoid of the pride that was blooming through her. The fencepost was twice as far away as the competition targets.

“Good. Hit it again and we’ll be done for the day,” Clint said, unimpressed.

She pulled back the string again, contorting herself into the pose that had won her success on the previous shot. She released. The arrow slid home next to the first. Natasha turned to Clint. “Satisfied?”

Clint shrugged. “For now. Pick up the arrows and meet me in the barn. I’ll prepare for Lady Romanoff’s Dance Academy of Horror.”

Natasha rolled her eyes at the treatment. If he wanted to stay on her good side, he could have got the arrows himself, but instead he was treating her like a lackey. It galled her, enough that she considered turning him in for the twentieth time, but despite herself she had grown to like Steve and Jane. She wouldn’t bring Hell down on them just because their friend was inconsiderate.

She moved to the fencepost, cutting out the four arrows she had managed to put into it over the course of the lesson. The sun was shining, the birds were singing. Even with the sweat coating her body, she felt alive and free. No chaperone, no father, no one to bother her. She moved past the fencepost, feet crunching on dry grass, to find the arrows hidden on the ground. It took her almost an hour, but she had to admit it was good incentive for hitting her mark more often the next lesson. Tired, but glowing with accomplishment, she walked back up to the barn, on the outskirts of the tourney. She passed two men, squires by the looks of them, who gave her friendly nods before walking onwards. It was refreshing to be one among many, no one pinning her with the stunned deer gaze that they would have given her if she had been dressed as Lady Romanoff.

She slowed as she reached the barn, holding the arrows in place in the quiver so they wouldn’t rattle and give away her approach.

“Clint, we need a real herald,” Steve was saying.

“If he can help with the horses then I say we bring him in,” Jane added. “I’m losing work every time I have to deal with Carter’s histrionics.”

Natasha chose that moment to make her entrance, mentally putting herself back into the role of Sir Samuel of Trask. “Good day,” Sir Samuel said to the assembled trio.

Clint was facing Steve and Jane, arms crossed and face set in a mask of stubbornness.

Jane was the first to react. “Good day, Sir Samuel,” she said. “We were just talking about the need for a herald. I met a man who would be a good fit.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Natasha replied, her face alight with boyish curiosity. Clint snorted in disbelief. “A herald sounds like an excellent idea, if you can afford one.”

“We don’t need a herald,” insisted Clint.

“Yes, we do,” answered Steve. He had a quiet magnetism that made Natasha suspect he got his way more often than not.

“A herald would be useful for getting the crowd on your side,” pointed out Natasha, attempting to pose as a neutral party. “But what’s this about two horses? I thought you had only the one.”

Clint jerked his head to a stall holding a dappled grey mare so impressive that Natasha had assumed she was someone else’s. “That’s Carter.”

“Why didn’t you ride her? She’s beautiful.” Natasha moved closer to the horse. The mare was in her prime, strong muscles rippling under a sleek coat.

“Woah,” Clint said, putting out an arm to block Natasha’s way. “She would have thrown me. She doesn’t like people. The only one she likes is Steve. And she’ll put up with Jane on a good day.”

“Well, she obviously has excellent taste in people,” Natasha told him, bypassing his outstretched arms and getting closer to Carter. “Hey now, pretty girl,” she cooed to the horse.

She could feel Steve and Jane gape at her. Too late she realized she was dangerously close to dropping character. Oh well, let them think Sir Samuel a horse enthusiast.

Carter snorted at her, her dark grey ears drawing back. Natasha stood her ground outside the stall, respecting Carter’s space but refusing to move backwards. “Pretty girl isn’t right, is it? You’re fierce, aren’t you? Don’t you miss it? The heat of battle, having something to do other than stand in your stall?” Although the words were probably nonsense to the beast, Natasha could see Carter relaxing, and her ears swished forward.

Steve threw Natasha an apple fast enough that it was a flicker of light. She was surprised by its speed and its accuracy, but she caught it easily enough. Moving closer to the door of her stall, Carter stuck out her head until she was almost touching Natasha. She offered the mare the fruit, which the horse took from her daintily, lips tickling her palm.

“I’ll be,” Clint said. Natasha could tell he was impressed, despite himself. “She almost took the ear off someone who tried to do that back in Spain.”

Jane made a strange splorfing sound as she covered her mouth with a hand to stop from laughing.

Natasha scritched the horse’s ears for a brief moment, then withdrew when Carter did the same. She made sure to keep herself out of the horse’s blindspot. “You just need to listen to the horse.” It was true, she could already feel an understanding form between her and Carter. Pity it would be out of character for her to buy her. She would make a fine addition to the Romanoff stables. “You know, if you jousted with her, you could knock most out of their saddles.” Her mind was already whirring. Clint’s odds in the next jousting tournament were probably going to be thirty to one after his performance in this one. If she invested a fraction of her savings into the bet, she could make a sizeable fortune, assuming he won.

“Excuse me?” A diffident voice came from the doorway. A raggedy man stood there, the hood of his cloak hiding his face but for two bright eyes. “I heard you need a herald?” He stepped forward, pushing his hood back, revealing a handsome middle-aged face and curly brown hair.

“Father Banner?” Natasha blurted in surprise, seeing a man she thought dead in front of her.

He spun towards her, hands out in a defensive posture. He looked at her in shock for a second. “Natasha?” he asked.

Steve and Jane looked between Father Banner and Natasha, confusion emanating from them like a cloud. Clint spoke for his two friends when he said. “Okay, what the hell is going on?”


	6. Chapter 6

_You had something to hide_  
 _Should have hidden it, shouldn't you?_  
 _Now you're not satisfied_  
 _With what you're being put through_  
\- Policy of Truth, Depeche Mode

Natasha felt three sets of eyes on her as Jane, Steve and Father Banner looked at her. Clint had his attention focused on Banner, a suspicious scowl on his face.

Natasha sighed. “I should probably explain,” she said in her normal, feminine, voice. She pulled the black wig from her head, her red locks tumbling around her shoulders. “My name is Natasha Romanoff. Pleased to meet you.” Natasha kept her features composed, but she could feel the heavy weight of anxiety on her chest. What if they told someone? What if they rejected her? She felt naked, her comforting cloak of lies ripped from her shoulders.

“I’ll be...” Steve began, looking unsure how to finish the sentence.

“You’re a woman!” exclaimed Jane. Clint kept his gaze on Father Banner, but she could see him looking at his friends’ reaction out of the corner of his eye.

“And so are you,” replied Natasha, tartly.

“I see you haven’t changed from the hoyden I once knew,” interjected Father Banner, shuffling from side to side in the awkward situation he had just walked into.

“It’s good to see you again, Father,” Natasha said, dividing her attention between all four of the people around her.

“You too, child.” He looked at Clint, Steve and Jane, and his nerve seemed to fail him. He stopped speaking and looked to Natasha for reassurance.

Clint stepped towards the Father. “Not to be rude, but who are you, exactly?”

“I’m Bruce Banner--priest, heretic, writer. Take your pick,” Bruce said quietly.

Jane gasped. “You’re the one whose formula was used for the new Florentian coins.”

Bruce’s head whipped up to look at the blacksmith. “Wait, you said your name was Jane Foster. You’re J. Foster? The one who corresponded with me before the accident?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Jane answered, forthright. And they were off, talking in a fast babble about melting points that neither Clint, Natasha nor Steve had a hope of comprehending.

“Am I the only one here who doesn’t have an alter-ego?” Steve asked, resigned to the chaos that surrounded him.

Clint shrugged. “We can start calling you something to make you sound better. What about Captain England?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow at Clint in disdain. “That’s a terrible name. It just sounds wrong.”

Steve nodded in agreement. “I like being Steve Rogers,” he told Natasha with an easy smile.

Natasha made herself smile in return, despite her insecurities. She liked Steve, and was almost sure he wouldn’t betray her.

“Tasha, who is this Banner guy?” Clint asked, watching Jane and Bruce, who were still talking at a hundred miles a minute, and now had their heads bent over a piece of parchment which they were scribbling on with charcoal.

“He was our estate’s priest, and a noted alchemist,” Natasha informed Clint.

“And the rest?” Clint asked. Natasha could tell from his body language that he wanted to get in between Banner and Jane until he could figure the man out.

Natasha thought carefully about how much to reveal. “One day an experiment went wrong. A bishop was staying at the castle, and Father Banner stormed into the middle of dinner. He was so angry. The potion had reduced his inhibitions, and he said what he really thought about the sale of indulgences and about the excesses of the cardinals. It wasn’t pretty.” Natasha had been a child and barely remembered the whirl of anger that Father Banner had provoked. Her most vivid memory of that time had been her sadness when the only adult she knew with kind eyes had disappeared from her life.

Clint winced. He had dealt with enough high-ranking priests at Fury’s side to know how dangerous speaking your mind to the Church hierarchy was. “And then?” he prompted.

“He was excommunicated. He’s been on the run ever since. Everyone thought he was dead,” Natasha said simply.

“Is he qualified to be our herald?” Steve asked, bringing the conversation around to his original point.

Natasha cocked her head as she considered Steve’s question. “He preached for years. He knows how to handle a crowd, and make a Latin mass interesting.”

“Well, he’s more qualified than I am, then,” Steve said cheerfully.

“You did fine,” Clint protested. “We don’t need anyone else.”

“I also thought you did a fine job,” said Natasha, reassuringly. Steve had been perfectly competent even if he had been a little boring.

Steve turned to look at her directly, a blush staining his face. “Thank you, milady.” He returned his gaze to Clint. “But we barely have enough time to take care of the horses and do the rest of the chores. We need someone, Clint.”

“We can figure out something else. Did you not hear? He’s a wanted man.” Clint crossed his arms.

“So he’s like us, he needs this,” Steve argued right back, not even flinching at disagreeing with the larger man, Natasha saw.

“Steve’s right,” Natasha added. She didn’t know why Clint was so reluctant to take Bruce into their circle, but perhaps he was more cautious than he initially seemed.

Clint looked between the two, and then over at Jane. He was clearly outnumbered. “Fine. We’ll keep him. Hell, if we can find another heretic, let’s bring him in as well. Why not?” Clint threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

“You’re a smart dame. I quite like you, milady,” Steve said, ignoring Clint’s outburst.

“Call me Natasha.” Might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, thought Natasha. “We’re all in this together, after all.”

Clint whipped his head around to look at her, surprised by her words. He might think that she was some unfeeling noblewoman, but she was capable of empathy and attachment, just like anyone else. She just needed to be selective about when she used those abilities.

The shadow of the fencepost outside had lengthened from one handspan to four while they had been talking. Natasha uttered a word far more fit for Sir Samuel than Lady Natasha when she realized the lateness of the hour.

“What?” Clint asked, hand going to the long knife at his belt at her alarm.

“I have to been seen at the final of the joust,” she said, picking up her wig from the hay-strewn barn floor.

“Aren’t you going to help with the herald situation?” Clint asked, gesturing to Bruce and Jane, who seemed to have slowed their speech down, though the words they used remained just as indecipherable.

She tucked her hair under the wig in quick, efficient movements. “I have every confidence in you two. Especially Steve.” She walked over to Father Banner, tapping him on the shoulder.

“What?” he asked, still engrossed in whatever he and Jane were discussing.

“I have to go now, but we’ll talk again soon.” She waved to the motley band. “Don’t forget the banquet tonight!” she called to Clint.

He muttered something that sounded like a sarcastic “I can’t wait.”

Natasha was already moving at an unsightly run, hoping Darcy had her clothes laid out and ready. It wouldn’t do to be late.

***

 _If you see me coming_  
 _Down the street then_  
 _You know it's time to_  
 _Go (and you know it's time to go_  
 _'Cause here comes trouble)_  
\- Trouble, Pink

Clint slipped into the banquet thirty minutes late, dressed in the best clothes Steve and Jane could come up with. He noticed other knights there were dressed in similarly thrown together garb, but the vast majority were in impeccably tailored, impeccably clean outfits made of expensive cloth. Clint tugged at his right sleeve, too wide for his taste but not wide enough to be fashionable. The nobility milled in small groups, surrounded by sumptuous tapestries, their conversations accompanied by a small group of musicians installed in the back of the room. Clint had never felt more out of place in his life. _Be inconspicuous, be inconspicuous, be inconspicuous_ he thought to himself.

“Sir Von Lichtenstein!” A woman’s voice came from behind him.

He jumped. A young woman appeared in front of him, rich brown hair curling over her shoulders. Her eyes sparkled with life and her dress of deep red accented her earthy beauty. Her jewelry, tasteful silver, was probably worth more than both of the horses combined.

“Ummm... good evening?” Clint was already lost. Natasha’s etiquette lessons had taught him that unknown women would rarely approach him alone, particularly without a companion.

“I’m Margaret of Carterton, I saw you compete in the archery.”

Clint bowed. “Lady. It’s a pleasure.”

She curtsied in response.

“You know, I have a horse named Carter,” Clint blurted. Damn, that was probably an insult.

Lady Margaret raised an eyebrow at him, but did not appear offended. “He any good?”

“She’s very good. She just doesn’t like me much,” Clint confessed. “Won’t even let me ride her in the joust.”

“Why do you keep her around if you can’t use her in the joust?” Margaret asked.

“Because, well,” Clint had never once thought of selling or getting rid of Carter. She was so important to Steve, and had been so important to Fury. “She’s a good horse, on the inside,” he finished.

Margaret smiled at him. “You are an interesting man, von Lichtenstein. Congratulations on your victory. I’m glad someone is finally taking the archery seriously.”

“Thank you, Lady,” Clint said, feeling planted to the spot as nobility moved around them.

“Anytime, Sir von Lichtenstein.” Lady Margaret curtsied again, and then moved, stately in her red dress, towards a different group of nobility. Her gown and bearing marked her as part of the in-crowd, and he noticed those around her eyed her with a wary respect.

Clint moved to put his back to a wall, scoping out how the dining tables were set out. If he remembered Natasha’s words correctly, as an unattached man of little note he should be sitting towards the bottom of the tables. However, no one was sitting down yet, which left him in the position of standing around watching others talk. A glitter of emerald and silver came from the corner of his eye. A dark head of hair. It couldn’t be. Clint craned his neck to look towards the man he had spotted. The stranger turned towards one of his companions, his profile outlined by the light of the torches on the walls for a half-second. Loki Odinson.

Clint closed his eyes, shutting down the memories of blood and pain. A shiver ran down his spine. Odinson had been an active commander in the Crusades, famous for his vicious strategies, against friends and enemies alike. Hell hath no fury like a convert to Christianity. He had clawed to a position above Fury, and was one of the reasons Fury had been assigned the dangerous mission that had ended in his death, and almost caused Clint’s and Steve’s into the bargain. That Loki was away from the front lines meant that he was here for some gamble of power. Clint surreptitiously eyed Odinson’s companions, trying to get a read on the situation, but by some unknown signal, the nobility started moving as one towards the tables before Clint could investigate the gathering around Loki more.

Clint put the silver-tongued snake to the back of his mind and scanned the crowd for Natasha, but her distinctive red hair was nowhere to be found. He hoped she was alright; he had seen her at the joust where the Winter Knight had defeated Count Skurge, and she had seemed fine then. 

The meal itself was perhaps the finest he’d ever had prepared for him. Yet he couldn’t enjoy it, looking for Natasha and watching Loki out of the corner of his eye. The snake had only seen him twice. Would that be enough?

“Will you be going to Paris for the joust, Sir von Lichtenstein?” the beefy man sitting to the right of him asked, obviously stymied by having a silent dinner companion.

“Yes,” Clint said. “Yourself, Count Skurge?”

The man nodded, his bald head catching the light as he moved. “I’ll get the Winter Knight next time, just you wait and see.”

Clint kept his face unreadable. “It will certainly be an interesting competition,” he said noncommittally. Natasha would be proud.

As if his thought had summoned her, she walked into the chamber on the arm of a man with steel grey hair, who Clint guessed to be her father. Her red hair was fire temporarily tamed into an elaborate updo, her dress a deep blue only achieved by the most skilled artisans. Her eyes swept the room, pausing for a tiny instant on him, then moving on.

Skurge noticed the focus of his gaze. “She’s a fine lass, that Romanov girl. A little too skinny for true beauty, but the Romanov riches add all the pounds a man could need.” He winked at Clint.

“Indeed.” Clint couldn’t imagine looking at Natasha and only seeing her wealth and her beauty, but Skurge didn’t seem like the brightest of men. Clint ate a mouthful of the apple slice on his plate so as to have an excuse to avoid the conversation, wincing as he burnt his tongue.

A second unseen signal, and some of the nobility got up from the surrounding tables. The musicians started to play a more lively tune and the dancing began. The dancers, men and women both, were colorful butterflies moving in sync. More and more of his dinner companions abandoned the tables for the dancing. Clint finally stood up and joined a line, making his way through the ebbs and flows of the dance with more determination than grace.

Natasha was dancing opposite Loki, who had pasted a charming smile on his face as he talked down to her. Clint ground his teeth, but managed to look away and appear uninterested. The men and women around him mostly ignored him, due to his lack of wealth or status, so all he had to do was keep time and exchange meaningless smiles. Lady Margaret nodded at him once, and he nodded in reply. She had seemed too sensible a lass to be a noble, yet there she was engaged in a deep conversation with Count Skurge, of all people. He thought he felt Loki’s eyes on him twice, but each time Clint looked at Loki, the man was turned away. Dismissing his thoughts as paranoia, he retreated from the dance floor as soon as it was mannerly to do so.

Clint prepared to leave, running his hand over his belt to make sure his knife and purse were where they should be. Natasha walked up beside him, face flushed from dancing.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” she asked, voice breathy and thin, unlike the voice he associated with Natasha. So this was Lady Romanoff, then. Another to add to a growing list of personas.

“Maybe. I competed in the archery. Clinton von Lichenstein.” Clint sketched out a bow.

“Natasha Romanoff.” Lady Romanoff curtsied in response. “What’s your secret identity?” Natasha asked him, voice quieter and pitched not to carry. Something had changed about her expression, and she was Natasha again. He wondered which persona was closest to the truth, Sir Samuel, Natasha or Lady Romanoff.

“What secret identity?” Clint responded, looking around to see if anyone was paying attention to their conversation.

“Steve said everyone but him had a secret identity. What was yours?” Natasha asked again.

“Hawkeye,” Clint replied, reluctantly. “I was famous for my eyesight and precision.”

“Ah. You did well tonight. See you in Paris?” Natasha kept her expression bored, as if she were merely catching her breath between sets, but Clint’s heart couldn’t help but leap at the praise.

“We’ll be there. Remember to practice an hour every day,” Clint reminded her.

“Practice, _what_ an hour each day?” Loki interrupted, voice silky smooth. He had appeared behind them as if by magic.

“Sir von Lichtenstein was reminding me to attend to my embroidery. I believe he was just retiring,” Lady Romanoff responded, equally smooth. “Goodnight, Sir von Lichtenstein.”

“Goodnight Lady Romanoff.” Clint bowed his head to them both, and left as quickly as he could without scandalizing the nobles between him and the door.


	7. Chapter 7

_I want a girl with uninterrupted prosperity_  
 _Who uses a machete to cut through red tape_  
 _With fingernails that shine like justice_  
 _And a voice that is dark like tinted glass_  
\- Short Skirt/ Long Jacket, Cake

Clint nocked his arrow, then released. Bullseye. The crowd actually applauded for each shot, which Clint found disconcerting after the silence of the previous group. An unreliable breeze wound its way through the trees, creating problems for some of the competitors, but Natasha was doing a good job of adjusting for it, something he hadn’t yet taught her. He could see her revel in her abilities, every shot making her more comfortable, more confident. She was perhaps the fastest improving of the students he’d taught over the years, which surprised him after her whining. He could tell she had been practicing hard, and it had paid off, although he needed to fix how far out she was pulling her elbow next time they trained together.

The first six rounds of the competition passed in a blur, with no real competition presenting itself. The field narrowed to he and Natasha. 

She stepped forward, composed under the eyes of the large crowd. She drew back her bowstring and released. A bullseye, just not as central as his own.

Clint made his next two shots in quick succession, shooting one into the exact center of the target, and one a little to the left, just to the outside of the bullseye. Natasha could win if she held up under the pressure and remembered her training.

Natasha’s mouth fell open at the miss. He lowered his bow and waited for her to shoot her final two arrows. She did, fingers shaking slightly as she drew the string for the first shot, then stilled with a deep breath. Bullseye. She drew the final arrow from her quiver, and sighted the target, brow furrowed in determination, her focus utterly on the target. Release. Bullseye. Clint felt the breath whoosh out of his lungs as he saw her bare her teeth in a fierce grin.

The crowd began clapping, and in some cases, stamping their feet. Clint bowed his head to hide his grin and left the field, bow in hand. He had two hours until he was scheduled to joust, so he was in no rush. Steve waved to him from the fence, the top railing at his eye level.

“What was that about?” Steve asked, nodding to where the shot he had "missed" sprouted from the target like an accusing finger.

Clint shrugged. “I wanted to show her that we trust her.” _And I wanted to see her smile_.

Steve looked at Clint skeptically for a moment, but said nothing.

Natasha was accepting her winnings, radiating pleased humility. Clint could tell the humility was feigned, but the pleasure wasn’t. She should be pleased, she had earned it. Now she had to hold up her end of the bargain. He didn’t have to wait long, Natasha sped over to where Steve and he were watching, as the rest of the crowd dispersed.

“Well played, Sir Samuel.” The name felt odd in his mouth. Even with Sir Samuel’s mannerisms she still seemed like Natasha, now that he knew where to look.

“You let me win. Why?” Natasha asked, tense and suspicious of his motives.

“No, I gave you the chance to win. Two different things entirely. And now you’re obligated to help me win the joust,” Clint said smugly.

Natasha rolled her eyes, but her shoulders came down as she relaxed. “Have you made nice with Carter yet?”

“We’re getting there, I hope” said Clint. Carter no longer tried to bite him when he came into range, and he counted that at as progress.

“Let’s go to the stables. Maybe you’ll be riding her and not Dugan by the finals.”

"Well I'll have to get there first." Clint followed Natasha, noticing the bounce in her step. If she was entering the tournaments for the money then he was a Templar. She loved the competition, Clint could tell, and was still reveling in her win.

“Your first opponent is overvalued, by the way. He loses concentration on the second pass and mistreats his horse,” Natasha called over her shoulder.

“He mistreats his horse?” Clint asked, outraged. He had no patience with humans mistreating animals. It would be a pleasure to pound whoever this guy was into the dust.

_We will we will rock you_  
 _We will we will rock you_

_Buddy you're a young man hard man_  
 _Shoutin' in the street gonna take on the world some day_  
 _You got blood on yo' face_  
 _You big disgrace_  
 _Wavin' your banner all over the place_  
\- We Will Rock You, Queen

It seemed like the tournament had mobilized the entire city. The rumble of passersby on their way to the tournament, along with the patter of street vendors selling food and banners could be heard even from Natasha’s rooms.

Darcy twirled in Natasha’s chambers, trying to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the expensive glass window. “What do you think?” 

Natasha and Darcy had remade the red dress Lord Romanoff had bought for his daughter when he thought Stark was courting her. Darcy was curvier, but she could get away with a shorter hem. The dress fit her like a glove.

“I think you look beautiful,” Natasha told her maid, smoothing down her own green dress. “We’ll be the talk of the joust.”

The gentle reminder spurred Darcy into action. “We’ll be late!” she exclaimed, hurrying to gather her things.

Without really thinking about it, Natasha bent down and picked up a scrap of the red fabric that they hadn’t used. It would be shame if such beautiful material was put into the rag bag, especially when red was such a hard color to get right. She slipped the red fabric into her bodice on a whim, and followed Darcy from the door.

\---

There were three matches scheduled for the afternoon, with Clint jousting in the second. Natasha and Darcy arrived in time to see the first match begin. The ground was packed, with children on the shoulders of their parents, but Natasha and Darcy had space reserved for them in the nobles’ stand so they did not have to worry about the crush. Natasha noted with gratitude that the seats were gender segregated, so she wouldn’t have to fend off the advances of awkward suitors.

The first match was between two equal competitors, and so was fought out to the third round. Natasha felt excitement fizzle across her skin as the horses rushed towards each other and one competitor’s lance shattered, sending sprays of wood over the commoners, who grasped at the larger pieces as if they were precious trophies.

Clint led Dugan up to the staging area on Natasha’s left hand side. He seemed unaffected by the carnival atmosphere, but she could read his determination in the set of his mouth. She knew telling him a horse had been mistreated would give him the necessary fuel to compete. Steve, Bruce and Jane were alongside him, and Natasha noted with a wince that they hadn’t even tried to wear his colors. It was an oversight she should have mentioned, but there was always next round.

“When do I get to meet all of them?” Darcy asked, noting the direction of her gaze.

Darcy had spent a lot of time covering for Natasha while she was training, and hadn’t yet met the rest of the gang. “Today,” Natasha found herself saying. “After the joust.”

“He’s way more handsome than I was expecting,” Darcy whispered so that the woman next to her, a young heiress from Rome, couldn’t hear. “If you don’t want him, can I have him?”

Natasha was unprepared for the surge of jealousy that overtook her at Darcy’s words. “No,” Natasha said, the firmness in her voice causing Darcy to jump in her seat.

“Okay, so he’s yours. What about the herald?” Darcy asked, recovering from her surprise.

“He’s not mine. None of them are mine, do what you will.”

As if to underscore her words, the two competitors, both bruised and battered from three runs at each other, walked past the stands, their eyes fixed on her.

“Lady Romanoff, I will win the tournament for you,” the winner proclaimed.

“Thank you, Sir Murdock,” Natasha said, the smile pasted back on her face. She could do worse than he, she supposed.

Murdock moved back towards his retinue, and Natasha dropped her smile, suddenly exhausted.

Clint’s opponent, Robert Drake, had arrived with his horse, a white charger. Drake was competent but ultimately uninspiring. The best he had done at a tournament of this level was to reach the semi-finals. And for all Natasha knew, Drake did mistreat his horse.

“Lords, Ladies,” Drake’s herald, a well-built man of middle years, bowed to the stands. “I present to you a man who is descended from kings, a man who has fought in the great North against pagans and in the hot south against the Arabs. I give you, Sir Robert Drake.”

Natasha applauded, as did the rest of the nobles. Their polite applause was drowned out by the cheers, booing and foot-stamping of the commoners.

Bruce walked into the center of the field. He began almost diffidently, his quiet magnetism making the audience strain to hear him. “Lords, Ladies,” and then the diffidence fell away. “And everyone _not_ sitting on a cushion.” The ladies around her gasped, Natasha bit her lip to keep from showing her amusement and Darcy clapped her hands in delight. After a moment of surprise, the crowd erupted with cheers.

“The man before you today is a humble man, not given to boasting. Indeed, I have only been able to put together the tale of his noble deeds from the evidence of mine own eyes, so unwilling was he to seek praise. I give you a man who I met, many years ago, while he was rescuing a babe from the hands of a Turk slavetrader. He traveled for three months, night and day, to return the child to the hands of his beloved mother.”

Clint held his face in a gauntleted hand. Jane stared at Bruce open-mouthed, then smirked. Steve, she noticed, didn’t seem surprised at all.

“Yet in those same three months he fought off bandits, killing a bandit king with one blow of his sword. In battle, this man is not to be crossed.”

The crowd held their breath, and despite themselves, the nobles around Natasha leaned forward in anticipation, caught up in the tale Bruce was weaving. In a few simple words, he had given Clint the advantage of having the crowd behind him. Drake’s herald was opening and closing his mouth like a fish, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“I will not keep you from your amusement with the tales of his deeds, but today I present a man whose name is synonymous with justice, valor and truth. I give you, Clinton von Lichtenstein.”

Clint waved and ducked his head. The arena vibrated with the clamor of the commoners cheering. Bruce slipped back into his quiet persona as he walked towards the fence.

The two men mounted their horses simultaneously. They nodded at each other, and held their lances in the air to signal that they were ready. The flag dropped and the horses sped forward. The first pass was an anti-climax, with the crowd sighing in disappointment. Neither knight got a solid hit, with their lances sliding off each others shields. Drake returned to his retinue, every line of his body exuding confidence. The retinue, she noticed, was decked out in the same shade of blue as Drake’s shield. Clint and his friends looked shabby and mismatched in comparison.

Natasha knew that Drake would be overconfident going into the second pass, it just remained to be seen whether Clint would take advantage of that. The flag came down and he started off a second slow. Natasha winced. The two men met in a clash of lances, and incredibly, Drake spun off his horse while Clint stay firmly in his saddle.

Natasha thought of the bet she had laid on this match, and joined the enthusiastic applause. 

She leaned over to whisper in Darcy’s ears. “Once you pick up the money from the bet, go by Lichtenstein's tent and give him a third.” She paused for a moment. “And give him this,” she said, fishing the scrap of red fabric out of her bodice.

The money was equal to the archery winnings, so she would no longer be in his debt. He probably wouldn’t recognize the significance of her favor, but he might be a superstitious sort and use it as a good luck charm. The psychological boost might be what he needed to win the tournament and thus win the larger bet she had made on him winning the tournament. 

Darcy took the scrap of fabric, eyes wide, and left for the gambling dens. Natasha sat back in her seat and waited for the next match.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to shenshen77 and lar_laughs for their continued support and fabulous beta skills.

_The best things in life are free_  
 _But you can give them to the birds and bees_  
 _I want money_  
 _That's what I want_  
\- Money, Barret Strong

Natasha waited for Clint outside his tent, dressed in Sir Samuel’s garb and holding her bow, the wood rough against her newly smoothed hands. Part of being Natasha Romanoff was that she had to file down the calluses archery gave her and then build them up again. She examined her hands critically, making sure they looked like the hands of a noblewoman so she wouldn’t draw stares as Lady Romanoff.

“Aren’t these things supposed to be embroidered?” Clint emerged from his tent, hand clutching the red cloth she had asked Darcy to give him.

Natasha glared. He wanted embroidery? Really?

Clint put up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “No, seriously, I’m touched.” He paused, uncertain. “But why give me this?”

“So you can win for me.” Natasha widened her eyes and tilted her head to the side pleadingly.

Clint sighed in exasperation, won over despite himself. “Exactly how much money did you bet on me winning this thing, sweetheart?” 

“Enough,” Natasha answered. Enough that if he won, she would be much closer to her goal.

“Well, then you should probably teach me to beat Murdock.” Clint slipped the red cloth in his boot, tucking it out of sight.

“Only after you teach me to put an arrow in a man’s eye at a hundred feet,” Natasha responded.

***

Clint beat Murdock, and Natasha watched him do it. From there on out something clicked, and he was able to translate his gift with archery to precision with the lance. He never missed. When he started jousting with Carter he became almost unstoppable.

He won in Avignon, where Darcy made Steve blush so hard that he turned as red as Natasha’s hair. He came runner-up in Toulon, where Jane and Bruce presented Natasha with a metal bow, which Clint taught her how to shoot after only a small amount of badgering. He won in Poitiers, where an etiquette session somehow turned into an entire day of dice and laughter. Clint learned never to bet against Natasha, and Darcy convinced Jane to let her put ribbons in her hair. Tournament after tournament, Natasha watched her pile of gold grow steadily, and by the time they reached London, she was almost at her goal.

_I remember the day_  
 _We used to fight together_

_Me and baby brother_  
 _Used to run together_  
\- Me and My Baby Brother, War

Clint and Natasha exchanged glances with each other across the banquet room. The last shivering rays of dusk had abandoned the room, leaving the party-goers in the light from the torches lining the edge of the large chamber. Still, Clint had learned, it wouldn’t do for her to talk to him in front of company. It would mean something to the gossips who were already branding her a spinster.

Natasha had won her third tournament since Paris, Clint his second (The Winter Knight had beat him once, in a muddy contest where he had been half-drowned in driving rain). Clint was morose despite the excellent food. He had only a few days left in the new life he had stolen for himself. The upcoming London Joust marked the end of the arrangement he had with Natasha, and the end of his career as Sir Von Liechtenstein.  
   
Clint wondered at Natasha’s future. A year ago he would have thought her privileged and spoiled, but he noticed the way Skurge and Loki circled around her like vultures at these events, and didn’t envy her. He hoped she found someone who was decent.

As if answering his thoughts, the double doors, inlaid with scenes of a noble party hunting a unicorn, swung open. A broad-shouldered man, who dwarfed the surprised guests around him, strode towards the center of the room. His clothing was rough, but the gold jewelry glittering at his neck and brow spoke of wealth.

“I am Thor Odinsson. I seek my brother.” The stranger’s voice boomed through the suddenly quiet room.

Loki slunk from behind a group of men he had positioned between himself and the intruder. “Thor,” he said, expression insolent and voice dripping disdain.

Clint watched the interplay with interest. Loki was from a pagan land in the North, and his family had exiled him after he’d converted to Christianity. That the Crown Prince of a Kingdom would devote so much time and effort searching for Loki implied that the story wasn’t as simple as Loki had made it out to be.

The golden-haired brother of Loki strode towards the hapless Lord. The ladies in the room gasped while the men put their hands on their weapons.

“Brother! I thought you were dead.” The man pulled Loki into a bear hug, lifting him off the ground as if he were as light as a lapdog.

“No, I’m alive, although Father may wish it otherwise.” The bitterness in Loki’s voice stung Clint’s ears. “We should take this conversation to somewhere more private, Thor,” Loki told his brother, who seemed dejected at the cool response he had received. “I am sorry for disturbing you, my fellows,” Loki said, raising his voice and spreading his hands in apology to the gathered nobility. “My brother and I will retire to talk over family matters. Good evening to you all.”

At least the gossips had something other than Natasha to talk about, Clint thought. The two brothers left from the same doors Thor had entered from so abruptly.

***

Clint shook his head, drops of water flying from his short hair. The cool stream three miles away from his camp had been the perfect place to wash away the sweat of a day’s training and to soothe his sore muscles. As the dusk sky traded sunlight for stars, his thoughts were on his grumbling stomach and little else. It was only instinct that had him ducking behind a tree seconds before Loki and his brother came into view.

“You are an oaf, a barbarian. My place is here,” Loki told Thor.

Clint winced. He knew first hand how hard it could be when there was a rift between brothers. He watched the scene from between two branches, effortlessly still as the temperature dropped, turning his skin into gooseflesh.

“Come home,” Thor begged. “You are an Odinsson. Mother worries about you constantly.”

“No, Thor. I am respected here. I will not go back to the pagan lands to be a princeling with no power.”  
   
“Then I will become respected here also. We are brothers, it is not right that we go years without seeing each other.” Thor put both of his hands on Loki’s shoulders, his beefy frame dwarfing his slender brother.

Clint looked down at his hands for a second. He had thought that way once too, but learned that for some, the bonds of blood were much weaker than bonds of gold. If only Thor could learn the same lesson before it was too late.

Loki snorted. “The only way you’d get any respect was if you were to convert.” Loki paused, and the air thickened with menace. “Or to win the tourney.”

Clint drew in a breath. This was part of Loki’s plan. He could feel it. 

“I will not forsake my gods, but battle, that I can do. If I win this tourney, will you be my brother again?” Thor’s voice vibrated through the air, underlining the strength of his emotion. Clint felt sympathy for the big man, he was already entangled in Loki’s schemes like a foolish rabbit caught in a snare.

“I will. Goodbye, Thor.” Loki’s face showed nothing for his brother but polite contempt, which made Thor’s aura of friendliness even more remarkable.

“Then I will be at your side soon, brother. Fare thee well.” Thor walked away, his head held aloft and his stride determined.

Clint saw Loki look after Thor not with regret, but with a smirk that indicated that everything was going to plan. Clint shuddered. The last time he had seen that smirk it had been directed at Fury. He decided to wait in the trees for a long while after Loki left, just in case. He didn’t need Steve to tell him that steering clear of schemes involving princes and lords was a good strategy.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to my wonderful betas lar_laughs and shenshen77. Warnings in this chapter for minor violence.

_It's clear from your vacant expressions_  
 _The lights are not all on upstairs_  
 _But we're talking kings and successions_  
 _Even you can't be caught unawares_  
 _So prepare for a chance of a lifetime_  
 _Be prepared for sensational news_  
\- Be Prepared (Lion King), Jeremy Irons and Jim Cummings

Clint was never going to get tired of watching Natasha win. He admired her form as she stepped up to the line for the final round of shooting, his unease over witnessing last night’s confrontation between Loki and Thor forgotten. She began pulling back her last arrow, arms and back making a clean-lined silhouette against the sky. She released, utterly relaxed and in control. The arrow sunk into the bullseye as if it were spelled there. Knowing Natasha’s penchant for creative competition, Clint didn’t discount the possibility. The other competitors walked away, disappointed.

Bruce watched next to him, taking a break from some arcane project he was developing with Jane. “She’s good,” Bruce commented. “I’m glad I could see her compete before the end of the season.” Clint’s stomach dropped as he remembered that in only a few days’ time, he would probably never see Natasha again. Something must have shown on his face, as Bruce spoke again. “You should probably say something to her. Soon.”

Clint opened his mouth, about to protest ignorance, but Bruce stopped him with a look.

“Say what?” Clint asked bitterly. “Please leave your noble life and all your schemes to come with simple me when I leave?”

“You two make a good team. What’s the harm in asking her to include you in her plans?” Bruce asked, voice deliberately mild.

Clint snorted. “Look, we made a deal, and we both held up our ends of the bargain. That’s it.”

Bruce didn’t respond, returning his gaze to the middle of the field, where Natasha accepted her purse. She started to talk with the Master of Ceremonies, carefully crafted innocence beaming from her face.

“We have to prepare for my first round match. Let’s go,” Clint told Bruce.

\---

Clint smirked as he watched his first round opponent depart the arena, defeated. London was a big tournament, and the highest seeds typically had an easy round before the competition really started. The lad he had faced could barely stay on his horse, which had looked like a pitiful nag in comparison to Carter.

“Good horse. We’ll get you more of a work out tomorrow, I promise.” Clint scratched Carter’s neck. She whinnied happily in response.

Steve laughed. “I don’t know, Clint, with the way you’re jousting it might be awhile before she gets a real workout. You keep on knocking them off on the first pass.” Being away from the stress of the Crusades had been good for Steve. He wheezed less and smiled more.

Clint was about to reply, but Bruce jostled him in warning. Clint turned. There stood Loki Odinson, cold eyes glinting in his face.

“Sir Liechtenstein, might I have a word?” Loki asked.

“Of course, Lord Odinson,” Clint inclined his head, a courtesy Loki had failed to pay to him.

Steve watched Loki with suspicion, but there was nothing he could do. “I’ll take Carter,” he said, grabbing her reins and walking back towards the stables, Bruce at his side.

“Congratulations on your form this year, Sir Liechtenstein,” Loki said, walking with a deceptive slowness that reminded Clint of a snake coiling itself in preparation to strike.

“Thank you, Lord Odinson. It’s mostly my team and my horse, to be honest.” Clint stopped in the shade of the emptying stands and stared vacantly at Loki. Let him think that Clint was a buffoon.

“I doubt that very much, Clint Barton,” Loki said, smiling for the first time in their interaction.

Clint stayed silent as his stomach clenched in fear. He knew he could take Loki in a straight up fight, but in a game of intrigue? What did the man have planned?

“What, did you think I wouldn’t remember you?” Loki asked, basking in his knowledge. “The stubborn commoner with the eery aim. Of course I knew you the first time I laid eyes on you. Just goes to show, like master, like squire. Both of you upstarts. Both of you out of your league.”

“What do you want?” Clint asked calmly, letting the anger he felt at Loki show through his expression.

“I want what any nobleman wants: power and a legacy to share it with. You, my dear Clint, are the perfect person to help me get both of these things.”

“Or you’ll expose me.” Clint’s mind raced. He and Steve had enough money between them to throw together an orphanage, especially if Clint supplemented that with income from manual labor. He, Steve, Bruce and Jane could leave in the night with no one being the wiser.

“Or I’ll expose you,” Loki agreed. “But do what I want, and I’ll reward you handsomely.” With a showman’s flourish, he produced a mid-sized blue gem as if from thin air. “This sapphire is worth as much as the tournament’s prize. You can double your winnings for just two boons.”

“Boons?” Clint asked suspiciously.

“Just two little things. First, put in a good word for me with Lady Natasha. She seems to like you, or at least appreciate your martial exploits. A word in my favor from someone who is so obviously enamored,” Loki stopped his speech for a moment to sneer at Clint, “would mean a great deal.”

Clint felt nauseated at the thought, but Natasha was more than capable of making her own choices. If Loki thought that a good word was enough to get him into her favor, he was sadly mistaken. “Fine,” he gritted out.

Loki noticed his reluctance with amusement. “What, did you think she would fall for you? If she knew who you really were, she’d be disgusted.” Loki looked down at Clint like he was an insect to be crushed. “Her father is taking his time choosing between Skurge and I, and if she expresses a preference it would tip the balance in my favor.”

Clint fought down the urge to punch Loki in the face. A choice between Skurge and Loki was no choice at all. He thanked God that Natasha was smart enough to have a contingency plan in place.

“And second, you need to kill my brother,” Loki continued, business like.

“What?” Clint asked, sure he had misheard.

“Kill my brother. Prince Thor, the big blonde pagan. You can’t miss him. What’s one more death on your conscience, archer?”

“They take a dimmer view of assassination here than in Jerusalem,” Clint pointed out, still externally calm. He knew Loki was a piece of work but he hadn’t realized he was a monster.

“Which is why you make it look like an accident,” Loki said softly. “Jousting. It’s terribly dangerous.”

“No,” Clint said. “I don’t want any part of this.”

“If you don’t, then I will gather my men to kill you and all your friends. My network is large, you wouldn’t be able to hide for long,” Loki said, offering Clint the blue gem.

Clint took it. It felt like a fifty pound weight in his hands.

“Let me be clear. If you lose before the final round, I will kill you and your friends. If you try to warn Thor, I will kill you and your friends. If Thor walks away from the final alive, I will kill you and your friends.” Loki offered Clint a wide smile, as if he had just told a fine joke. “Now swear to me you will do as I ask.”

“I swear on my father’s grave that I will do this task,” Clint said, putting conviction behind his words. If there was anything the last decade of his life had taught him, it was how to pretend to support a cause that was not his own.

“Don’t look so glum. With one thrust of your lance, you’ll have made the heir to a pagan kingdom a Christian. As soon as my father dies, the glorious reach of the Church will spread. Your service to Christendom will be greater here than it ever was in the Crusades.” Loki gloated in his victory, mind far away as he imagined his glory.

Clint ground his teeth but said nothing. Loki walked away as if all they had been discussing were minor sword techniques, or the weather, completely unaffected by guilt.

 _But I will not lay down in the road_  
 _I will not make it easy_  
 _I don't got no saints or saviors_  
 _This is guerrilla and I will fight this war_  
\- Torpedo, Jillette Johnson

Natasha walked towards Clint’s camp, Darcy at her side. She had been so caught up in the whirl of London social events that she hadn’t been able to see everyone since they reached London. Still, she was buoyed by how well the tournament had been going. Clint had won his first three rounds, and now only had to defeat Skurge and then the winner of the joust between The Winter Soldier and Thor. If he won, she would have her final purse from the bookmaker, and reach the goal she had never thought truly possible.

The cluster of tents that marked the camp were the same as she had seen only a few days ago, but Clint, Jane, Steve and Bruce all sat in a lifeless circle around the fire. They looked defeated, utterly at odds with what Natasha had expected.

“What’s wrong?” Darcy blurted out.

Clint looked up at Darcy, shoulders slumped. “Loki.” He turned his eyes to Natasha and she almost stepped back at the pain in his eyes.

“You should join us,” Bruce said, gesturing to the empty space next to the fire.

Jane looked like she was holding back tears and Steve was fuming quietly.

“Explain,” Natasha demanded, crossing her arms.

Clint did. He told them about being blackmailed by Loki, about how he had to kill Thor or be exposed himself. About Loki’s plans for wealth, status and eventual kingship after a marriage to Natasha. And how Loki had threatened to hunt every last one of them down unless Clint did his bidding.

“What proof do you have?” Natasha asked once he’d finished.

Clint shrugged. “Just this,” he said, holding up the blue gem that Loki had offered as payment.

Natasha worked her lip between her teeth as she thought. “I may have a plan.”

Steve shook his head. “I’ve been thinking about this for days. There isn’t anything we can do. Loki has more resources, more power, more everything.” His mouth firmed in stubbornness. “But I’ll be damned if we kill an innocent man. Bruce should tell the whole story at the start of the joust.”

“There isn’t anything _you_ can do,” Natasha corrected Steve, “but I have resources and contacts that you don’t. We can fix this without exposing all of you. Get some sleep and act like tomorrow is a normal day.” She turned her head to pin Clint with her gaze. “Beat Skurge, and show up to joust Thor. I’ll handle Loki.”

Jane wrapped her arms around herself. “I don’t want Thor to die. He complimented me on my armor without once commenting on the fact that I’m a woman. It’s not his fault his brother is a snake.”

“No, it isn’t.” Natasha jerked her head at Darcy, who used one arm to hug Jane in an attempt to comfort the woman. “He won’t die.” But Natasha knew if it came down to it, there wasn’t any contest between her friends’ lives and the life of one barbarian prince. “I have to go call in a few favors.” Natasha got up to leave.

“Oh, Natasha,” Clint said, his voice laced with irony. “That Loki? He’s a real nice guy.”

Natasha laughed, trying to show a confidence she knew the rest of them needed. “I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.”

\---

Natasha was bone tired. She had spent the night writing letters, making plans and then making backup plans for those plans. Her eyes threatened to close and she wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep, but she had to continue acting like everything was normal. Face set in her placid noblewoman mask, Natasha handed a note to Darcy. Waiting for the joust between Clint and Skurge to start was hard on the girl, who was fidgeting.

“Give this to Steve,” she told Darcy. “It’s an address of a tavern where they can stay so Loki doesn’t visit retribution on them. It’s all paid.” Finding a tavern in the middle of jousting season had been a nightmare, but it would be worth it if her friends were safe.

Darcy took the note, her usually bright eyes dulled with tiredness. “Of course.” Darcy was barely able to hide a yawn behind her hand. For all her positive traits, subterfuge was not one of them.

“Lords, Ladies.” Skurge’s herald, dressed in the green livery of his master, walked onto the field. The match had begun. From the corner of her eye she could see Loki lurking at the edge of the noble’s stand, eyes fixed on the field.

Skurge’s herald finished and Bruce walked forward. Everyone, from the elderly noblewomen to the smallest children, leaned forward in anticipation. Natasha suspected that many of the people were there to see Bruce speak more than to watch the joust.

“My Lords, my Ladies,” Bruce began. “Behold, my lord Clinton. The rock, the hard place, like a wind from Gelderland he sweeps by, blown far from his homeland in search of glory and honor.” Bruce paused and locked eyes with Loki. Anger sparked in his eyes and she could see him struggle to hold it down. “His skill and determination have given him victory when all hope has seemed lost. I present to you, Sir Von Liechtenstein."

The crowd roared. Clint was favored over Skurge, who everyone knew as a bully and a braggart. Clint raised his lance in invitation almost as soon as Bruce cleared the field, impatient to get started. Skurge rose to the challenge, raising his lance in response. They thundered towards each other, the heavy hooves of the horses vibrating in the sudden silence as those watching held their breath in anticipation.

A large dog emerged from the forest of legs that made up the common crowd, white against the churned brown of the jousting alley. It ran at Carter, teeth bared. The horse shied away, reacting from instinct, and slamming her side and Clint’s leg into the barrier. Skurge’s lance hit Clint in his right arm and his entire body shook with the impact, but he remained in his saddle.

Darcy gasped. Natasha fought the urge to get to her feet to have a better look. Even from her seated position she could see Clint had stayed on his horse and was slowly urging Carter back into his corner. The horse, wild-eyed, followed his commands. A long minute passed and pandemonium reigned as no one quite knew what was going on. She saw Loki’s face, contorted with rage. So this was sheer bad luck, and not one of his schemes. Clint stayed on his horse throughout and appeared to be arguing with Steve.  Carter had calmed and showed no sign of injury.

After conferring with the other herald, Bruce moved to the center of the field, voice booming over the commotion. “The first pass will be run again. No points have been scored.”

Clint was impossible to read, sheathed in armor. But he had to be in pain, injured. The two knights kicked their horses into action and galloped at each other again. This time Clint’s lance hit Skurge directly in the chest, and he levered him out of his saddle like pus out of a smallpox sore. Clint didn’t remove his helmet. He just sat there, and Bruce and Jane ran towards him, reaching him just in time to catch him as he fell out of his saddle.

She wanted to go to Clint, to see if he was okay. But she wasn’t a healer and he had Bruce to tend to him. Focusing on her plans, she pushed back her exhaustion and her worry; she had a visit to make before tomorrow’s final. The cautious part of herself said to abandon Clint and his friends to their fate, but she ignored it completely. She was in this battle now, and Loki wasn’t going to know what had hit him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you muchly to my betas shenshen77 and lar_laughs. We cross the 20,000 word mark at this chapter, and they've been there every step of the way. Without them their would be no story. Or at least no commas. 
> 
> In this chapter we add minor sexual content and threats of extreme violence to the already present minor violence and occasional swearword.

_The North is to South what the clock is to time_  
 _There's east and there's west and there's everywhere life_  
 _I know I was born and I know that I'll die_  
 _The in between is mine_  
 _I am mine_  
\- I Am Mine, Pearl Jam

The day of the final dawned cloudless and dry, promising a heat that left Natasha sweltering in her elaborate emerald dress as she waited for the joust to begin. The stands were large enough to hold all of the interested nobility and some of the wealthiest merchants. Darcy sat to her right, letting loose her nervous energy by weaving and re-weaving the edge of one frayed sleeve.

“A good day for the joust, isn’t it?” Loki asked as he slid into the seat next to her. He was dressed in rich green clothing, each item perfectly tailored and in the height of fashion.

“Yes, Lord Odinson. I’m looking forward to the competition. Your brother is quite a warrior.” Natasha smiled up at Loki.

A flicker of rage crossed his face, quickly covered by charm. “He always was quick with a sword.”

“I hear that you’re a warrior as well. Sir von Lichtenstein was telling me about your success in the Crusades,” Natasha said, leaning forward as if she were interested in his every word.

“Sir von Lichtenstein spoke well of me? We barely knew each other.”

“You must have quite the reputation.”

“Well, Lichtenstein is a good-hearted sort.” Loki looked at Natasha, waiting for a reaction to Clint’s name. She blinked innocently back. “Almost too good-hearted.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You know the owner of the dog that startled Lichtenstein’s horse was put into the stocks?” Loki continued talking to Natasha, ignoring Darcy’s presence to her other side.

“Good,” Natasha said with satisfaction. That dog could have cost Clint his life if Carter had reacted differently.

“Yes, I certainly thought so, but Lichtenstein demanded that he be released. Even saved the dog from being turned into sausage.” Loki’s contempt for Clint was clear in the way he spoke his name.

Natasha rolled her eyes in unfeigned exasperation. Clint should have been focusing on the joust, not rescuing peasants from their fates. “Country knights,” she said aloud.

“Indeed. Barely fit to joust at all,” Loki said, moving closer to her, until his leg touched hers.

Her skin crawled, but she showed no outward sign of her disgust. “Whereas you are a true lord, leading armies instead of just a half-sized squire.”

Loki smiled approvingly. “Army is stretching my numbers. I have ten men, brave warriors all.”

Natasha nodded as she digested the information. Clint, Thor and their companions versus ten men was a fair fight.

Thor and Clint both entered the arena. Natasha watched them enter with trepidation. So many things could go wrong, despite how carefully she had set the stage.

Thor’s herald, a beefy man obviously unused to the pomp and circumstance of the tournament, but cheerful all the same, strode to the center of the field. “My lords, my ladies. Prince Thor would like to make an announcement.”

Natasha creased her brow, pretending to be puzzled. Internally she was celebrating. It had worked. Thor had believed her. It had taken two nights of counsel, and enough research into Loki’s foul deeds against innocents to make even the worst cruelties of her father towards his people pale in comparison. Natasha had felt ill afterwards, but it was worth it.

The blonde man strode to the center of the arena as if the armor he wore was made of air. The arena seemed suddenly small in comparison to his size. “When I told you I was here looking for my brother, you believed I meant Lord Odinson. But Loki has given up the right to be called my kin. I came here to look for another brother, a half-brother, born before my father and mother were wed.” The crowd began to mutter. “I searched in secret, hoping to bring back a second heir, and searching in vain. Finally I discovered who he was, no man other than Sir Clinton.” Natasha let herself close her eyes in relief for just a moment, then observed Loki. He was beyond furious, his hand going reflexively to the knife at his belt. “I will fight you this day, brother, to give sport for those who have attended.” The crowd roared in approval. “But I will feast with you after, as a friend.” Thor lied badly, but his nervousness played as understandable awkwardness. 

Clint raised his lance in acceptance and then closed his visor, seemingly unfazed by this turn of events. The nobles around her seemed to have accepted the story. The knot of worry she had been carrying with her loosened in her chest. Everything was going to plan.

“I must go, milady.” Loki spat the words. The anger that emanated from him was so cold that it burned.

“Of course, milord,” Natasha said politely. “I will stay and watch the match.”

After Thor’s announcement, the joust itself was an anti-climax. At first what seemed like a mismatch, as Thor had half a foot and at least fifty pounds on Clint, turned into close competition. Both had solid hits in the first round. In the second, Clint was able to avoid Thor’s lance, and get in a solid hit of his own. In the third, Clint hit Thor in the chest, and Thor returned the favor. It was a points victory, but a victory nonetheless

Clint rode to the corner where Steve, Jane and Bruce waited. Carter’s sides were slick with sweat after the three runs. Clint almost fell from the saddle, caught by his companions. He had to limp towards the center of the field to collect his prize, a large feather made of gold. The arena vibrated with the applause and the cheers from the crowd.

Natasha clapped along with everyone else, proud of Clint and of herself. The deception she had woven with Thor’s assistance provided a perfect excuse for Clint to leave the city and the tournament circuit. While people would look for him next year, the excuse that he was visiting Asgard and his new found family would be enough. Not only that, but Thor traveled with enough warriors to protect him from a frontal assault from Loki. Add Clint’s arrows into the mix, and he would be safe.

“I’ll go collect your purse,” Darcy said, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Thank you,” Natasha responded absentmindedly. She had almost forgot about the purse that she would collect from Clint’s win, so relieved was she that her scheme had come to fruition.

Her thoughts returned to Loki. If he made a move on Clint while he was still in the city, it would be seen as petty jealousy, and an insult to the realm of Asgard. If Clint was attacked by anonymous thugs, people would be all too ready to believe that Loki was at fault. She had boxed him in like a mouse in a trap. The events of today would make his proposal less attractive to her father, giving her the time to make her own exit from the world of nobles and jousting tournaments.

\----

Natasha, dressed as Sir Samuel, slipped into the door to Clint’s rooms, surprised to find them dark at such an early hour.

“Don’t move,” Clint barked from the bed. He sat up, blankets falling around his waist. She could just make out his silhouette in the dusk light. He was holding a bow aimed directly at her heart. She took the wig from her head and let her hair spill over her shoulders. “Wait, Tasha?”

“You would shoot me, Clint? After everything I’ve done for you?” She held her hand to her chest, pretending to be offended.

“What are you doing here? I thought you might have been one of Loki’s men!” Clint was still befuddled by sleep.

Natasha shook her head. “He doesn’t know where you are.” She moved closer to the bed, adrenalin humming through her veins. She knew it wasn’t prudent to be here, now, but she didn’t care.

“That still leaves the question. What are you doing here?” Even in the half-light she could see his breathing slow as he relaxed, his bare chest expanding and contracting in time to his breaths.

“I came to say goodbye.” She reached the bed, now close enough to see the outline of his features. Her memory filled in the rest, the roughness of his skin and the blue-green of his eyes. “My father and I go home in the morning.”

“I’m touched, but shouldn’t you be planning an escape of your own? You got the money you needed, right?” He spoke just a little too quickly. She could feel his eyes on her, but he made no move to touch her.

“Thanks, in part, to you,” Natasha confirmed. “And I do have an escape plan, don’t worry.” She leaned over the bed to press a kiss against his lips. “Goodbye.”

He caught her hand in his as she made to move away. “How long do you have to say goodbye?” he asked.

She smiled, a heady mix of excitement and lust making her heart beat faster. “Until dawn tomorrow.”

***

 _And then I crashed into you and I went up in flames_  
 _Could've been the death of me but then you breathed your breath in me_  
 _Then I crashed into you like a runaway train_  
 _You will consume me, well, I can't walk away_  
\- Crashed, Chris Daughtry

Clint woke when the first rays of sunlight cleared the windowsill in his room, Natasha dozing next to him, her arm slung over his side. He smiled, a wide foolish grin, and closed his eyes again. He resisted the urge to pull her close and bury his face in her hair. It would wake her, and the sooner she woke, the sooner she would leave. Long minutes passed, as he ignored the pain in his leg in favor of admiring the woman next to him. Finally she woke.

“I have to go,” Natasha told him sleepily. In the moment before she was fully awake, she stretched out her arms and back, as smug as a cat in the sun. God, she was beautiful.

“Can I convince you to stay?” Clint asked, reaching for her.

She deftly avoided his hands and repeated her words. “I have to go. Sorry, Clint.” She rolled out of his bed, careful to avoid bumping his injured leg, and started putting on her clothes, piece by piece. 

Clint made a sound of protest and sat up. “Stay.”

“I did,” Natasha told him. “All night.” She leaned over and kissed him until he was breathless, then pulled away. Her skin was radiant in the early dawn light, and Clint couldn’t help feeling proud of himself for playing a role in that glow.

“No, I mean stay with me. Come with me and Thor to Asgard.”

“Thor and I,” Natasha corrected automatically before his words sunk in. She paused in her dressing and a mask of indifference descended down her face. “I can’t. You know that, Clint.”

“Why not?” Clint tried to keep his voice even, but it seemed cruel that she would spend one night in his bed, then walk away forever. 

Natasha sighed, and shimmied into her leggings, movements heartbreakingly graceful. “Be practical, Clint. I’m an asset, the most valuable thing that Ivan Romanoff has. Marrying me gives a man the entire Romanoff estate. My father isn’t going to let me ride away into the night with a bastard prince.” 

Clint slumped back down against his pillow. He knew he had nothing to offer her, other than himself. Why had he thought she’d say yes?

“Oh, stop sulking,” Natasha said crossly, binding her breasts. “It’s not about you. I _can’t_.” Her voice was acrid against his ears.

“I’m sorry, Tasha. Just forget I said anything. I’ll miss you,” he said, glum. What else was there to say?

“I’ll miss you, too,” she told him. He knew her well enough to see regret in her eyes.

And that was when the world went mad. The door crashed open. Armed men invaded his room. Clint reached for his bow, but his injury slowed him. Just as his fingers brushed the wood, a heavy object hit his head and the world went dark.

\---

When Clint woke for the second time that morning it was to an aching head and a leg that felt like it was on fire. He remembered Bruce lecturing him about infection and knew he should be worried, but all of his fear was for Natasha. What had happened to her?

He opened his eyes, wincing as the light re-doubled the pain in his head. He could see enough of his surrounds to know he was in a jail cell, grey stone, chains on his wrist and ankles, and a meager bundle of straw on the ground to serve as his bed. Someone had dressed him in too-large breeches while he was unconscious. There were no windows, and the door to his cell was solid. He didn’t have long to wait until the door swung open. Lord Ivan Romanoff stood there, sword at his belt and mouth drawn into a thin line. Clint let his head fall back in relief. Not Loki. Natasha was safe. He didn’t have time to enjoy his relief before Romanoff unsheathed his sword and made three quick strides towards him.

“Lichtenstein,” Lord Romanoff held his sword to Clint’s throat.

Clint opened his hands, palm open, to indicate his helplessness. “Lord Romanoff,” he answered.

“You seduced and ruined _my_ daughter,” the lord said, hand tightening on his sword. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cut off your dick and feed it to you.” The sword point dropped towards Clint’s crotch. 

“It was one night, just to say goodbye,” Clint blurted. Fear made his thoughts race. What could he do to convince Romanoff of his good intentions? The man seemed hell-bent on hurting him. And did he even know his daughter at all? Clint has not been the seducer in that situation.

“Goodbye? You would blacken my daughter’s name and then leave?” Romanoff demanded.

“Yes.” Clint’s eyes widened in alarm as he realized what he had said. “I mean no. If she wanted me to stay, I would.” Nobles were crazy, Clint decided. All this fuss about sex? Natasha was a grown woman, for God’s sake.

One of the guards from outside the cell cleared his throat and poked his head into the room nervously. “Lord Odinson is here to see you,” he told Romanoff, keeping his eyes fixed on the lord so as to studiously avoid looking at where Clint was chained to the wall.

Romanoff sheathed his sword, kicked Clint viciously in the side and then swept from the cell, leaving Clint open-mouthed behind him.

Clint looked up at the ceiling, in supplication to a God he didn’t know if he worshipped. The ceiling was made of cracked stone, and had no doubt been witness to a thousand terrible fates. He began counting the cracks, for lack of anything better to do.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for moderate violence and blood. 
> 
> As always, thank you to lar_laughs and shenshen77 for spending so much of their time on this fic, and just generally for being amazing betas.

_I’ve been left out alone like a damn criminal_  
 _I’ve been praying for help cause I can’t take it all_  
 _I’m not done,_  
 _It’s not over._  
\- Shot in the Dark, Within Temptation

Clint made himself relax. He didn’t have the ability to escape, chained to the wall and without tools he could use to free himself. He just had to wait, and take any opportunity when it came.

The heavy tread of the guard’s steps came from the corridor outside, like they had many times before. This time they were joined by a much lighter footstep. The door swung open, revealing a rotund guard and a tall, beautiful noblewoman with strawberry-blonde hair holding a folded pile of clothes and a substantial wooden stick, too thin and too long to be a club.

“Good afternoon, milady.” Clint figured that he had nothing to lose by attempting charm.

“Good afternoon, Sir Lichtenstein,” the woman replied politely. “I’m Lady Stark and I’m here to get you out.”

“My knight in shining armor.” Relief reverberated through his bones. “Wait, Lady Stark? _You’re_ Pepper?”

“I am.” Clint could see no sign of Natasha’s former lady’s maid in her visage, just cool nobility.

“Well, it looks like Lord Stark could do one thing right,” Clint commented with a smile.

Pepper smiled back, and gestured at the guard, who trudged over to unlock Clint’s chains. Clint rubbed his newly freed wrists, wincing as his fingers came into contact with the raw skin. Lady Stark threw him the bundle of clothes and turned her back. He dressed hurriedly, feeling rejuvenated by the feel of clean cloth next to his skin.

“I’m decent,” Clint told her. He moved towards the door, but stumbled as his injured leg hit the floor. Pepper offered him the stick she held without comment. 

“Don’t get me wrong, but what’s the catch?” Clint inquired. He was pretty sure that nobility, even new nobility, didn’t do favors for free.

“Natasha sent me a letter a few days ago asking for me to help you if you ended up in a situation like this,” Pepper explained. “No catch.”

Clint grinned to himself. Natasha did care more than she let on, _and_ she was scarily prescient.

“How did you manage getting me out of here?” Clint asked Pepper as they walked out. He used the walking stick begrudgingly, but it was better than having to rely on someone else for support.

“I bribed them more than Romanoff did,” Pepper answered. Clint nodded. He wasn’t wanted for any crimes, at least Sir Lichtenstein wasn’t, so Romanoff had to have greased some palms for him to end up in a prison.

Sunshine fell on his face as he left the building. He blinked away the tears from the sudden brightness. As his eyes cleared he could see no one was there waiting for him. “Where’s Natasha?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Pepper answered, her face still, her eyes worried. “But I know some people who might.”

***

Clint and Pepper entered the clearing to find Steve, Jane, Darcy and Thor waiting for them. Another dark-haired man, who Clint guessed was Lord Stark by the way he looked at Pepper, hovered in the corner, alight with nervous energy. All of their equipment was packed into bags at the edge of the clearing, ready to go. He noted with relief that his metal bow lay on top of a quiver in the midst of the pile.

“Clint! You’re okay,” Darcy rushed forward to embrace him.

“You know me, I’m like a rash, I just keep on coming back.” Clint joked, before turning serious. “Where’s Natasha?”

His friends exchanged glances, none wanting to be the first to speak.

“I don’t know,” Darcy finally said. “I was dismissed from my post this morning, and the Romanoffs have moved from their rooms. Bruce is working his contacts with the priesthood to try to find out.” That explained the former priest’s absence.

“Do you know if she’s okay?” Clint demanded. He had been knocked unconscious so quickly, Natasha could have been injured without his knowledge.

Darcy nodded. “She was the last time I saw her. Physically, at least.” Clint waited for the rest, arms crossed. “But the news of the scandal has already spread through the town. Loki has made an offer for her hand that Lord Romanoff would be foolish to refuse.”

Loki marrying Natasha? The thought was too repulsive to bear. “What’s the plan?” Clint asked Steve.

“What plan?” Steve replied, confused.

“The plan to rescue her? She had so many plans, she must have told you something!” Clint couldn’t believe that everyone was standing around, doing nothing.

“Look, I’m sure your heart is pure and everything.” Stark waved vaguely in the direction of Clint’s crossed arms. “But Natasha told me to get you out of London. She didn’t say anything about needing rescuing.”

Clint fought down his irritation. Stark had only just joined them and he thought he got a say? “I’m not leaving her behind,” Clint said firmly.

“Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes?” A bulky man with half his face covered in smallpox scars stepped out from behind a large tree and into the clearing. The chainmail shirt he wore was rusted and full of holes, but it clinked menacingly in the sudden silence. “We’ve been looking for you lot all day.” Five men followed the man, forming a wall of unfriendly muscle between them and the road to London. Identical gold chains glittered at their necks in the midday light.

Steve stepped forward, his throwing knives gleaming at his belt. “Can we help you?”

The man leered. “Which one of you is Thor?” Clint didn’t like the look of this. The men all moved as if they were veterans of many battles, and from the unspoken communication between the members, they were obviously used to working as a team.

“You would challenge me, Englishman?” Thor asked, looking down at the scarred man.

“Not by myself. I’m not suicidal.” The scarred man said, half-laughing.

One of the men to his left made a harsh sound from the back of his throat, to Clint’s ears mimicking the call of a buzzard. Four more men, each wielding a long knife and wearing padded cloth armor, entered the other side of the clearing in response to his call. The thugs, ten in all, spread to block the possible exits.

“Looks like we’ve got all the targets in one place, boys,” the scarred man gloated.

“Not quite all of them.” A woman’s voice, rich and musical, came from behind the circle of toughs. Lady Margaret of Carterton appeared behind one of the men, wearing leggings with a sword at her belt. He turned, surprised, and she punched him in the face before he had time to process her presence. He fell to the ground in a limp heap.

“I’ll be damned,” Steve swore in admiration.

Winking at him, Lady Margaret stripped the long knife from her prey’s unconscious form. 

“Lady Margaret?” asked Clint, surprised by her sudden appearance. He surreptitiously began to inch to where his bow and quiver lay on their bags. They didn’t have enough firepower to fight ten trained men without his bow in the mix.

She nodded to Clint, warrior to warrior, and rested her hand easily on the pommel of her blade. Clint couldn’t help but think he’d seen the blade, a high quality weapon, before. “Looks like you have an insect problem. Would you care for my assistance?” Her crisp vowels were a direct contrast to the mumbling of the thugs.

“One bitch won’t make a difference.” The man in the chainmail shirt chopped his right hand down sharply and, in response to his signal, the thugs attacked, half of them moving towards Thor and the others moving towards everyone else. They moved like they scented an easy victory. Clint was determined not to give it to them.

In the time it took for Clint to limp hurriedly towards his bow, Steve had thrown a knife into the chest of the leader, where it found one of the gaps in his chainmail. Thor had knocked a second man’s head half off his body with an easy swing of his hammer, and Lady Margaret had maneuvered to cover the Asgardian’s back. Pepper had fled behind Tony with an undignified “Eep!” while Jane grabbed the largest hammer from her toolkit. Darcy had disappeared. In the space of a few seconds, the peaceful clearing had turned into a chaotic melee.

Clint dove towards the ground, outstretched hands closing around his bow. He pulled an arrow from the quiver, rolling away just in time to dodge a knife blow from a young thug looking for easier prey than a giant barbarian. As the thug swung again, Clint hurriedly fit the arrow to his string, drew and released. At this close range, the arrow sunk so deep into the chest of his assailant that only half the shaft was visible. The attacker fell to his knees, blood bubbling from his lips, and Clint quickly turned his attention to the rest of the combat.

Thor wielded his warhammer with joyous rage, utterly home in the melee, while Lady Margaret wielded her sword and a long knife in tandem. The two noble warriors fought back to back, surrounded by a pack of men, picking up minor injuries as they dealt out powerful blows of their own. Only a few feet away, Steve was adroitly using a tree-branch to fend off the blows of a one-eyed thug. The squire was too occupied in defending himself to present an offensive threat. Darcy darted out from behind a tree with a frying pan to brain a man who was attacking Thor. The man turned to attack her, dazed and angry. Clint felt his stomach drop as he desperately reached for his quiver, knowing he couldn’t move fast enough to finish Darcy’s attacker before his blow fell. Then from nowhere, Jane finished the dazed man off with a blow of her hammer. Clint sighed in relief. That only left Stark and Pepper, who were desperately defending themselves from the remaining two men, Pepper’s hand white-knuckled around a dagger. The battle hung in the balance.

Clint stayed on the ground as he shot into the melee. He smirked as his first arrow flew towards the throat of the man attacking Steve, freeing the squire to launch ranged attacks of his own. His next arrow found one of the men attacking Stark, whose skill was clearly in the smithy and not the battlefield. His third went into one of the men attacking Margaret. The tide turned, and in seconds only the man Lady Margaret had knocked unconscious remained alive. She walked briskly towards him, poured her belt flask over his face and kicked him unceremoniously in the side.

He opened his eyes to find her and Thor looming over him. “I surrender!” the remaining thug shouted. He was a grizzled man of middle years, a patchwork of scars and the scrawny muscle of his arms testifying to many years of back-alley brawls.

“What do you know?” Lady Margaret demanded.

“Know? I don’t know anything,” the grizzled man protested. “Nobody tells me nothing.”

 _Double negative_ , Clint thought automatically, his mind going back to his lessons with Natasha. The way Lady Margaret had taken control of the situation reminded him of her, he reflected ruefully.

Margaret raised an eyebrow in polite disbelief and Thor moved to stand beside her, his bulk an intimidating presence above the man.

“Look, Loki told us to kill you,” he told Thor, “and some guy called both Lichtenstein and Barton. We tried, but we didn’t realize you had an army of misfits with you. I don’t know anything else, I swear it. If I did, I’d tell you.”

Margaret sighed in disgust, as if bored by his very presence. “You may go.”

“Thank you, milady!” The grizzled man pulled himself to his feet to leave.

“Wait.” Clint leveled his bow at the man, who froze, terrified. Clint couldn’t help feeling pleasure at the naked fear the man displayed. “Give me the chain around your neck, the one that Loki gave you.” The man nodded hurriedly, confirming Clint's suspicion that the chain marked allegiance to Loki. The grizzled man ripped the golden chain from his neck and let it fall from his fingers as he turned tail and ran.

From the corner of his eye, Clint could see Steve looking at the Lady with undisguised appreciation. Clint didn’t blame him. As the buzz of adrenalin faded, Clint was finally able to place the lady’s sword. He had seen it in the Winter Knight’s equipment. No wonder Lady Margaret reminded him of Natasha so strongly. They had pulled the same trick to compete in the tourney.

“Thank you for your assistance, Lady Margaret,” Steve said, his voice slightly wheezy from the exertion of the past few minutes.

The lady shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, managing to make the motion look elegant. “I heard about the scandal, and I thought I should tell you what I know about Lady Romanoff’s location.”

Clint focused all his attention on Lady Margaret, excitement pushing through the weariness of little sleep, a stay in prison and a battle. “Where?” he asked, daring to hope.

As if on cue, Bruce rushed into the clearing. “I know where she is!” He looked at the bodies of the thugs and the smears of blood on the grass. “What did I miss?”

***

“I’m not leaving London without Natasha,” Clint said, for what felt like the hundredth time. It had taken precious minutes to explain everything to everyone, and they were taking far too long to decide on a course of action.

“Clint’s right,” Steve said, “Natasha is our friend. We can’t leave her behind.”

“Well, Clint isn’t thinking with his big brain,” Stark responded, leering at Clint.

“The man wishes to be with his love. He does not deserve mockery,” Thor told Stark sternly.

Pepper clapped a hand over Stark’s mouth and gave him a look that told him to stay silent.

“She’s not my love,” Clint protested, before his brain caught up with his mouth. Who was he kidding? He’d been falling in love with her almost from the first time they met. “Maybe she is, but she’s also our friend. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“I will come to your aid. You may not be my brother in blood, but you are my brother in battle, and rescuing your lover is a worthy cause,” Thor boomed.

Clint winced as his ears rung with Thor’s words. “Thank you, Thor.”

“It’s not quantifiable, but love is the force that holds the universe together. Even a common blacksmith knows that. I will do what I can,” Jane said quietly. 

Thor looked at Jane, eyes aglow, but said nothing.

Bruce looked down at his hands, as if remembering. “Love is worth fighting for. It might be the only thing that is.”

Darcy looked around the circle of her friends with disbelief. “If you got yourself killed over her, Natasha would never forgive you.” She turned to Clint. “Besides, you’re injured and exhausted. What can you do?” She crossed her arms, obviously feeling like she had to stand in for her mistress in her absence.

“Steve?” Clint asked. “You heard the lady. What _can_ we do?” The odds were stacked against them, but Clint had been there when Steve had done more with less.

Steve held his chin thoughtfully. “It’s risky, but I have something that might work.”

“Count me out,” said Tony. “I’m not helping. At all.”

“Yes, he is,” interjected Pepper. “Just tell us what you need.”

Steve pulled out a parchment and ink from one of the bags, calmly stepping over the body of the first man Clint had killed. “Don’t worry, we won’t need you,” he told Stark. He stopped, cocking his head thoughtfully, “Unless things really go to hell.”  He turned to Bruce. “How are you with splints?”

***

_I know sometimes I get angry, and I say what I don't mean._  
 _I know I keep my heart protected, far away from my sleeve._  
 _But don't ever question if my heart beats only for you, it beats only for you._  
\- My Kind of Love, Emeli Sande

“I will of course marry your daughter, despite the fact she’s damaged goods,” Loki told Lord Romanoff. “No need to scrape the bottom of the barrel with Lichtenstein.” The hall they were in was old and drafty, despite the fire roaring next to the chair Lord Romanoff sat in. Instead of brazening out the storm of gossip in London, Lord Romanoff had fled to the hills. It had been a foolish move, confirming the rumors, but Natasha had been in no position to change her father’s mind.

Natasha rolled her eyes at Loki’s comment. “As long as we get married at home, I don’t care who I marry,” she interrupted.

“You lost your right to a say when you took a lover,” her father told her, eyes on Loki. He had been unable to look at Natasha since she had returned from the inn where Clint and she had spent the night, but she refused to feel guilty for her actions. “Lord Odinson, I think we can come to an agreement.”

“Before we get down to the horse-trading, may I have a word with my intended?” Loki asked, his charm, which seemed thin and false to Natasha, was all too convincing for her father.

“Of course,” Lord Romanoff answered. He got up to leave, signaling for the two guardsmen to stay in their places.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Loki whispered to Natasha, out of earshot of the departing lord. “If it wasn’t for you whorish ways, my bid for the Romanoff estate would have been jeopardised by your common lover.” The words dripped like poison from his tongue.

Natasha raised an eyebrow in disdain, but whatever response she might have offered was cut off when the doors to the chamber swung open, missing Lord Romanoff’s nose by a hair and forcing him to backpedal.

Steve, freshly scrubbed and dressed in the maroon livery that Natasha had insisted they purchase, walked into the hall. Natasha let no sign of her surprise show, but he was the last person she had expected to see.

Steve drew himself up into the pose common to heralds on the jousting field. “I present Clinton von Lichtenstein, Knight of the Realm and Prince of Asgard.” Steve directed the last at Loki, who seemed to take the words like a physical blow.

Natasha’s surprise was soon overcome by fury. She had arranged things so carefully so Clint could escape, so he could be safe, and he was coming here, of all places? Her father could kill him.

Clint, dressed in a woolen tunic and breeches that would have been standard for a commoner if they hadn’t been splattered in blood, walked in after Steve. Her heart stopped, until she realized the blood wasn’t his. His eyes searched the room until they found hers, just for a second, and she could see relief cross his face.

“Leave, before I have you thrown out,” Lord Romanoff commanded angrily.

“I have something to return first,” Clint told the lord. Something glinted in Clint’s hands, and he threw it casually at Loki, who put up an arm to protect his face. A ball made up of small gold chains bounced off Loki's forearm and onto the floor. “I believe those belong to you.” Clint smirked at Loki. “The men that wore them won’t be needing them anymore.”

After an ominous pause, Loki smiled. “I’m quite sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He lied well, but Natasha could see that the display had rattled him. Sweat beaded on his forehead as his eyes flicked between Clint and Lord Romanoff.

“You dare to enter my presence?” A vein bulged at the top of her father’s forehead as he shouted at Clint. “I should have you executed. I should have you tortured.”

“I have a proposal for you,” Clint said, interrupting the lord as if he were the social superior in the situation.

There was a long moment of silence. Natasha held her breath, aware that anything she could say would make the situation worse.

“Make it good,” Lord Romanoff finally said, settling back into his chair in an attempt to gain some control of the situation.

“I marry your daughter, not Loki.” She knew Clint was injured, but could see no sign of the pain he must be in on his face as he walked further into the room, exuding confidence. Despite his common dress, he had never seemed like more of a noble.

Lord Romanoff snorted in disbelief. “You’re a surplus groom. I already have a suitor, one who isn’t a bastard. Guards!”

The two guardsmen stepped forward, intent on apprehending Clint. Steve, who had blended into the background after performing his herald duties, reached into his belt pouch with warlike intent. Natasha could see the situation begin to spin out of control.

“I’m a better candidate than Lord Odinson.” Clint clenched his jaw in determination, ignoring the approach of the guards as if they were beneath him.

“And why is that?” Lord Romanoff looked Clint up and down, sceptical.

Clint answered readily. “Loki is ambitious and arrogant to the extreme. When we fought in the Holy Land, his men were more likely to die than any other group. He spent their lives like water poured over barren soil. A complete waste of resources.” Clint sniffed in disdain, as if he were more appalled by Loki’s mismanagement than the thoughtless death. “He spent ten lives today in a thoughtless attempt to kill me and our brother. A huge expenditure for no gain.”

Ten lives? Natasha smiled. That meant Loki’s forces in London were taken care of. 

Lord Romanoff regarded Clint thoughtfully. “I admit I expected you to talk about true love or some claptrap. I underestimated you, Lichtenstein.” So had she, Natasha admitted to herself.

“It happens, my lord,” Clint said, his accent and his bearing adhering exactly to the lessons she had taught him. “You’ve spent your entire life building your estate. Pass it on to a man who will pass it on to your grandchildren, not someone who will sacrifice it for his own ambition.”

“I protest this characterization. Especially when _Sir Lichtenstein_ has neglected to mention something very important about himself.” Loki stepped forward, fingers caressing the dagger on his belt.

Natasha closed her eyes as she realized what she had to do. Loki planned to reveal Clint’s common status, and there was always the chance her father might believe Loki over Thor. Especially since his first impression of Clint hadn’t been good. “I’m pregnant with Sir Lichtenstein’s child,” Natasha interjected.

All three men turned to look at her in honest surprise. Clint’s reaction turned to quickly hidden amusement, Loki’s to disgust and her father’s to weariness.

“Well that settles it,” her father said. “I apologize for wasting so much of your time, Lord Odinson. You may leave.”

Thoroughly defeated, Loki stalked away angrily, like a big cat who had failed on a hunt. 

“Father, if you’ll excuse us, I need to talk to my future husband. Alone.” Natasha bit her lip and did her best to look contrite.

“I don’t really care what you do, as long as you marry someone before you start to show.” Her father shook his head in a combination of disbelief and disappointment, then levered himself from his chair and began to walk towards the door, moving slowly as the years of his life caught up with him all at once. “I expected better of you. I expected better _for_ you.” The doors swung shut behind him and his two guards.

Steve looked between Clint and Natasha, blushing slightly. “I’ll just leave.”

“You do that,” Natasha answered, deadpan. What she had to say to Clint wasn’t for anyone’s ears but his.

“They were all ready to storm the hall for you, Natasha. We all were. Thor, Darcy, Jane, Pepper, Bruce, the Winter Knight, even Tony,” Steve told her with an encouraging smile.

“Thank you, Steve.” Natasha smiled in return. 

Steve slipped out of the room, leaving the Clint and Natasha alone.

“We won. Thank God.” Clint turned to look at Natasha, a soft smile on his face. She glared back, hoping the fury she felt was clear in her expression. From his wince, it was.

“What the hell are you doing?” Natasha asked coldly.

“Coming to the aid of the woman I love. My new brother seemed to think it was my duty,” Clint said, wounded.

Natasha’s felt excitement spike in her belly as she heard him say ‘love’ but she reminded herself that she had been fine before he came along and would do just fine after he left. “What, did you think you could just come in here and save the day? Like I’m some damsel that needs rescuing?” She threw her hands up in the air in frustration.

Clint stepped backwards away from her, as if burnt by her anger. “I came here to offer you a way out. If I’d known you wanted to marry Loki, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“No.” Natasha rolled her eyes at his inability to comprehend her position. “I don’t want to marry Loki, I don’t want to marry _anyone_. I had a plan, damnit.”

“Well, maybe you should have communicated that plan to me, instead of leaving me in the dark. Why are you the only one who gets to move people around like they’re chess pieces?” he asked bitterly, swaying on his feet in exhaustion.

Natasha caught him before he fell, and guided him towards the chairs. “Are you alright?” she asked, doing her best to hide the depth of her concern.

He fell into a chair, slouching into it as if were months ago and he had no idea of proper etiquette. “I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”

Natasha perched cautiously on the edge of the seat opposite him. She knew she could have been more forthcoming about her plans, but she had been juggling so many balls in the air and hadn’t had time to tell him everything. “I was going to fake my death on the way home. The estate would have reverted to the king after my father’s death. That was the plan,” she admitted.

“You can still follow through with those plans. But maybe we could try something else,” Clint said hopefully. He looked at her like she was his entire world, like he couldn’t imagine being with anyone but her. Something in her answered, and wanted to fall foolishly in love with him, but she couldn’t. She knew how bards’ tales ended.

“Clint, the way you’re looking at me now, the awe in your eyes. I’ve seen it before.” Natasha leaned forward to put a comforting hand on Clint's forearm, which was still tacky with blood. “I’ve seen it in the eyes of so many noblemen who look at their brides on their wedding day. And I’ve seen how it ends. It might take a night, it might take ten years, but they always end up screwing the maid, screwing the stable-boy or screwing the horse, leaving their wife with a bevy of brats and no say in her life.”

Clint didn’t flinch or seem surprised by her vulgarity. “Love is worth fighting for. It’s the force that holds the universe together,” he told her, quiet conviction in his voice. Natasha looked quizzically at Clint. The sentiment was his, but the words didn’t sound like him at all. Seeing that she was unconvinced, Clint continued. “C’mon sweetheart, make one last bet on me.”

“So you’ll marry me, for love?” Natasha asked. Clint looked good, even under the blood and the exhaustion. She knew he had been through hell for her, and would do it all over again if she asked, but she still wasn’t ready to marry him.

“Oh, I’m not marrying you. Clinton von Lichtenstein is,” he replied with a smile that invited her in on the joke. “Be practical,” Clint said, quoting Natasha’s words from the morning, which seemed so long ago, back at her. “Clinton von Lichtenstein marries Lady Natasha Romanoff. The next day they leave town together to hide the scandalous fact of her pregnancy.” His mouth twitched. “Hell of a move, by the way.” Natasha inclined her head in thanks. “Thirty miles from here, _you_ can take your money and leave me if you wish. Go back home in a couple of years as the Widow Romanoff, with a red-haired child in tow. With an heir and dead husband, you’ll be in control of your own estate. You’ll have everything you ever wanted.”

Natasha’s heart leapt in her chest. He understood. He actually understood. Still, she had to make sure. “How can I trust you?” she asked, echoing their first meeting.

He held his hand to her cheek, thumb running over her bottom lip. “You can’t. But sweetheart, we both know you’re more than capable of slitting my throat while I sleep.”

Natasha bit back laughter at the gruesome comment. He knew her, he had pierced all of her disguises like they were nothing, and he still loved her. She lowered herself into his lap, slowly and deliberately, eyes locked with his. The pupils in his eyes dilated and her breath came faster. She leaned forward to kiss him, clean silk pressed against bloody wool, and the rest of the world fell away as his mouth met hers.


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! It's finally here, in all it's short glory. Thank you to those who left comments along the way.
> 
> Thank you especially to lar_laughs (Comma Fairy Supreme) and shenshen77 (McSpeedy) for sticking with this rather bizarre AU until the end. I couldn't have done it without you.

_And everyday_  
 _I am learning about you_  
 _The things that no one else sees_  
 _And the end comes too soon_  
\- Angels, The XX

Kate hung back in the group of orphans as the widow Rushman walked through the doors of the orphanage. The widow looked the same as she always did when she visited: dressed in the plain black of mourning, the quality of her dress and wimple showing her wealth and status. Her only concession to ostentation was the multistranded gold necklace that hung around her neck. Her bodyguard, a muscular man in his middle years, was a brooding shadow behind her, wearing a plain shirt and trousers. He blended into the background, the only note of color in his outfit a faded red cloth tied around his belt.

“Madam Rushman, welcome,” Steve said with a wink as he moved towards the pair. He was surrounded by the older children, some eager-faced, some sullen-eyed teenagers. The best of the teenagers would be chosen by the widow to be agents for her merchant empire.

“Thank you for inviting me, Master Rogers. It’s my pleasure. Who do you have for me to interview today?” the widow asked sweetly. It was hard to believe that someone so young and beautiful had so much status. She was the major benefactor of the orphanage and, rumor had it, her mercantile empire was also a powerful intelligence gathering organization.

As Steve and the widow began to talk, the children dispersed. The more promising ones stayed with Steve to try and charm the widow, but Kate took it as her cue to break away from the crowd and slip quietly into the shadows. She went to the rafters, where she could watch the people below without being watched herself. Three years ago, she would have been in the thick of things, laughing and talking, but three years ago, her parents had been alive.

“Hey, there,” a male voice said, from only a foot away.

Kate jerked in surprise, but kept her balance. It was the bodyguard. He seemed less grim close up, with a sparkle of humor in his eyes and a faded bruise on his cheek. “You’re the bodyguard. What are you doing up here?” She looked at him accusingly, chin jutting out.

The bodyguard shrugged. “My charge is perfectly safe. I just wanted to get away for a while.”

“Well, you can get away somewhere else. I was already here.” Kate scowled at the man.

“I’m Clint, Clint Barton.” He offered his hand. She shook it confidently. He wasn’t going to intimidate her from her perch.

“Kate Bishop.” She subsided into silence.

Barton waited her out, watching the people celebrate beneath them. The food was laid out, food she had helped prepare, and delicious aromas wafted up to where they waited in the rafters. She didn’t go down to get her share, because to do so would be to implicitly give up her spot to the intruder.

“You’re not really her bodyguard, are you?” Kate asked, finally. He was too confident, in both the widow’s safety and his own position.

Barton smirked. “What makes you say that?”

“You don’t seem like a bodyguard. You seem like a thief.” He was more suited to skulking in dark alleys than standing at the back of a wealthy merchant.

“Maybe I used to be a thief. I’m a bodyguard now.” He looked towards the widow, his eyes softening for a moment.

Kate examined him critically. “I’m sure you are. What about Natalie Rushman? Is she really a merchant?”

“Of course,” Clint answered. “Why else would she be here?”

Kate grinned. “She could have a thing for Master Rogers. Why else would she give so much money to this place?”

The jibe rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. He grinned back, all battered charm. “The widow Romanoff pays her debts. She’s a good patron.”

“Trying to recruit me?” Kate asked bluntly.

“Being a bodyguard is hard work by myself,” Barton remarked, ostensibly looking at the room below them but really looking at Kate out of the corner of his eye.

“You should try Eli over there.” Kate nodded to a dark-skinned youth beneath them.

“I’m looking for a bodyguard who doesn’t look like a bodyguard.” It was Barton’s turn to examine her critically. “Steve tells me you’re good with a bow.”

“The best,” Kate answered confidently.

“We’ll see. You up for the job?” Clint asked.

The widow, talking with a pimpled young man, looked briefly in their direction and quirked her lips before returning to her conversation. Kate had the sense that Rushman could take care of herself, but she might as well check the job out. It could be fun. 

“I’ll do it.” Kate smirked. “An old guy like you probably needs all the help he can get.” 

Barton laughed. “I’ll go tell Nat about her new retainer.” He jumped to the floor, startling two of the nearby children, and strolled to the table laden with food, whistling.


End file.
